


The Ups and Downs of Loving an Englishman

by Mrs_Procrastination



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gauken, M/M, Romance, The Ups and Downs of Loving an Englishman
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-17
Updated: 2015-08-06
Packaged: 2018-01-12 19:37:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 63,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1196949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mrs_Procrastination/pseuds/Mrs_Procrastination
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur Kirkland is the schools punk, and Alfred F. Jones is the schools jock. The two of them are constantly at each others throats. All Arthur wants to do is return home to England and never look back, and all Alfred wants to do is stop thinking about the rebellious, hotheaded, annoying, and hot-ass-hell Englishman. [[UsUk! Rated M for later chapters, enjoy the cuties!]]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bandages and Bruises

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note: Hello everyone! This is my first post on this website, although I've had a FanFiction.net account for a few years now! I have the same username on there, so feel free to go check out some of my other works! I hope you enjoy this, I'm still working out the formatting on this site so I'm really sorry if font size is messed up, or something~!

**Chapter 1:**

**Bandages and Bruises**

 

Ever since the day a person is born, they're raised to see their parents hugging and kissing each other lovingly, and they're used to watching Disney movies; which portrayed the concept of a happy ending. And even as a child grew up, going through elementary and middle school, they still watched cheesy chick-flicks and they looked up to those 'happily ever after' stories about celebrities that could be seen on the front of tabloids in the supermarket. And god damn, Arthur really hated that. Growing up in the heart of Manchester, England had been what most people would call 'living the dream'. Although it was a busy, overcrowded city with far too many rude old women who yelled at rebellious teenagers, Arthur had always found it scenic, and breath taking. The smell of fresh tea in the morning, the chilling weather that, by this time, wrapped around Arthur with warm and protecting arms. 

But then he been shipped off to America, to live with his father. His mother had previously lost her job, qualifying their family to be one of the poorest in all of Manchester. They'd barely gotten by, Arthur, his mother, and three of his brothers all lived together in a cramped, two bedroom apartment that had no air conditioning in the summers. But still, he'd rather have to sleep on the floor than have to leave his beloved family, and go live with his father. Nonetheless, at the young age of fifteen, Arthur, packed his bags and flew over to live with a drunkard of an old man who he was _supposed_ to have feelings for. But all he could ever feel was resent, and fear. 

There was a reason the older man had long ago deserted his family and moved to America. He'd gone to the United States to escape a nasty debt and a gambling problem, of course that only followed him over. 

At the present moment, Arthur Kirkland was walking down the halls of Jackman's High School for the Fine Arts, one of the top ranked art's schools in Florida. His head was bowed down, faded maroon backpack slung over one shoulder carelessly as he headed towards his locker. His black skinny jeans had a few tears in the knees here and there, the soft fabric hugged at his thighs and hips slightly as he walked. His dark grey shirt was sleeveless, an in depth drawing of the band album The Black Parade by My Chemical Romance on it. His black and white checkered Van's made a soft 'pit pat' on the ceramic tiling of the schools floor as he walked. Black eyeliner was drawn neatly beneath his eyes with perfection, although with the addition of a black eye painted across the fragile skin of the right side of his face, not much of the hard work could be appreciated. He had a piercing or two in each ear, nothing more than a silver stud that caught the light of the sun and reflected if it was hit right. Up his arms were dozens, upon dozens of wristbands. They were from multiple different concerts he'd snuck out to see. Maroon 5, Green Day, Mindless Self Indulgence… The list went on and on. As for his hair, it was entirely dyed a darker red color. Not a simple blond hair was showing, and he kept it that way. 

Arthur finally made his way to his locker, wincing lightly as he felt a sharp pain in his stomach. No worries, he'd been hit by one of the football players on his way home yesterday, and it'd left quite an impressive bruise. The Briton brushed aside the annoying pain, unlocking his old, red locker with paint chips flaking off. There were multiple faded messy scribbling of inappropriate things on it that had been drawn in sharpie. The words 'queer' and 'faggot' had been painted onto it, although the school had done a good enough job of getting that off. Arthur honestly gave _zero_ fucks about what people thought of him. He was gay, and the whole school knew it. And that certainly didn't help the fact of the football players hating him. Oh well, the Briton was a quite strong-minded person, he could handle it… Or at least, he kept telling himself that. 

Shoving his backpack into his locker hastily, he pulled out his abused, ripped up sketch book. He'd only gotten into the Fine Art's school because of his drawing abilities, his mother back in England used to have Arthur get babysat by a friend of hers, an aspiring artist who taught the emerald eyed teen a lot about sketching and painting. He bit down on his split lower lip absentmindedly as he grabbed his overfilling, drawn on bag of Copic Markers, some of the best artist markers out there. After grabbing a few notebooks for his classes and a textbook, he closed his locker. 

Arthur froze up suddenly as he heard joyous laughter bouncing off the walls of the hallways, and he groaned quietly. Not today, he already felt like crap from the day before….

"Well look who it is, our favorite little faggot!" Called out a nameless person, just another dumb-ass jock who couldn't count to ten without using his fingers. In haste, Arthur opened his locker once more and stored away his sketch book and (rather expensive) markers, then closed it again. He didn't care if his other stuff got torn up and stomped on, but sketching and drawing was one of the few things that kept him sane at night. "Yo! Don't ignore me when I'm talking to you, you queer." The same teen sneered, walking up and slamming his hand against the lockers next to Arthur's head. Slowly, the emerald-eyed teen turned around to look up to the (much taller) teenager, a frown spreading across his lips.

"Go drink bleach." Arthur replied in a cool, controlled tone. His eyes spared with a deeper, more malicious shade of jade as he spoke, signaling he refused to take _any_ shit from them.

"Awh, well that's not very nice, is it?" The jock questioned, sneering as he leaned closer to the other. "You should talk nicer to someone who could beat you to a fuckin' pulp." 

"And you should talk nicer to someone who knows you've been cheating with _three_ other girls." Arthur replied. 

"Why you little shit--!"

Arthur swung out a fist suddenly, able to hear his knuckles popping in protest as they slammed into the jaw of the assaulting teenager. He pulled back seconds later, holding in the pain that throbbed on the delicate skin of his hands, his artist hands, which he always took such good care of. He was terrified he'd break it or something.. What if one of those asshole jocks went too far and put his hand in a cast? He wouldn't be able to draw then! 

"You'd better get the hell out of my way." Arthur growled, on defensive as he cradled his books close to his chest. The teen that had been towering over him, tumbled back and onto one of his friends. There was a collaboration of loud cursing and arguing, in which Arthur took the chance to try and sneak away. 

"Woah, woah, woah, not so fast!" Chimed in another tone. That was when Arthur's eyes widened, and he truly felt a pang of fear bubbling up in the pit of his stomach. Alfred F. Jones. Oh fucking hell, he really resented the jock. He hated the way that the blue-eyed teen thought he was on top of the world, how he acted like he was god. But he really hated how hard he could hit. Not with his fists, but with his words.

Everyone else's comments were shallow, things Arthur could deal with. But for whatever reason, the American had a way of finding his weak point, and driving the nail deep into it. Whenever he put attention on what he was saying, Arthur always went home and hugged a pillow for the remainder of the night. The Brit didn't look back, knowing he'd be faced with a pair of bright, angry sapphire hues and a sneer that sent spikes and daggers down the Brit's very core. Nonetheless, he felt a hand ball up into a fist in the back of his shirt. 

"No need to leave so fast, faggot." Alfred spat out, yanking the other back. Arthur tumbled with a quiet yelp, books spilling out onto the hard tiled floor as he himself fell. His bum contacted with the ground harshly as his head banged into the old, chipped lockers. That added to one of the dozens of dings in the lockers from his head. For a single, terror filled moment, Arthur's vision went black as his arms scrambled out to support himself. Slowly, his vision dotted back in place like puzzle pieces falling into sorts, and he hastily shoved himself up to his feet, despite the others trying to keep him down. He could feel a thick, hot liquid matting the back of his hair down, which he could only guess was blood. Goddammit. At least the red wouldn't stand out in his already-dyed hair. 

"I said _relax,_ Kirkland, enjoy your stay~" Alfred cooed, taking a step in closer to the other. To Arthur's mutual pleasure, he could hear that the guy he decked was crying quietly. Huh, what a bunch of girls.

"You'd better hurry onto class before they fail you, Alfred. I don't understand how you could have possibly gotten into such a prestigious school, but they'll kick you out soon enough once they realize you're as worthless as a bag of bloody walnuts." Arthur said in a rather calm tone, although he could already anticipate how much the punches he was sure to receive would feel. The American sneered, leaning in and holding his hand against the other's neck in a rather frightening pose, almost like he was mutely suggesting the fact he could badly injure him with a single hand.

"It's called a sports scholarship, faggot." 

"Sports will only get you to the point where you've become such a dick that none of your friends want to hang out with you." 

Arthur felt a knee coming into contact with his stomach before he saw it. He coughed dryly, doubling over as both of his arms flew to wrap around his body, trying to prevent further harm. Another blow was roughly delivered to his jaw before he had a second to think, and he sunk to the floor as his head banged up against the lockers once more. Arthur grimaced at the bitter, iron-like taste on his tongue, which he'd bitten down onto quite roughly. Oh shit. He could feel that he'd bitten down on the small piercing on the tip of his tongue. Fuck fuck fuck fucking shit that hurt. He fell to the floor, books long past scattered around him on the ground. Some of Alfred's teammates were having fun tearing up the pages and scattering them around the halls. Sucking on his injured tongue, he turned his head to look back up at Alfred, who no sooner brought a foot down roughly on the Brit's hand, which was sprawled on the tiled floors to keep himself upright.

The Brit yelped in pain, hearing a soft cracking sound of the bone as he tried to yank his hand back, to no avail. "Shit! Get off Jones!" He shouted, adrenaline and fear coursing through his veins. His hand! His drawing hand! The Brit tugged once more, finally freeing the only thing that kept him in this school away from the jock. Quickly, he cradled the injuries close to his chest, sparing a glare up to the other that could of killed him. 

Alfred opened his mouth to speak, then paused as one of his teammates tapped him on the shoulder. He frowned, mumbling something under his breath. Finally, the American turned back to face Arthur, looking just as sinister as he had a moment ago. "Well, we can't have another tardy on our record, so we'll see ya around, cock sucker~" The American cooed, and with one last brutal kick to the Brit's thigh, he walked off with his friends. 

Arthur did nothing to protest the kick, almost teary eyed as he frantically looked down at his hands. It appeared to be his pointer, and middle finger that were in the most pain. He touched one, wincing and mumbling some string of foul curses under his breath. Trying to bend them, he cried out quietly before quickly deciding it was a bad idea. He finally forced himself to stand up, slowly collecting his ruined books with one hand, tossing all of them back into his locker. He glanced to make sure his sketch pad and markers were still there, before limping to the bathroom. He'd grabbed his backpack on the way, slinging it over his shoulder. 

His jaw hurt, his stomach hurt, his mouth hurt, his thigh hurt… But his hand, that was the only thing he gave a shit about. It didn't matter if he wouldn't be able to walk without a limp for the next month, but he _needed_ to be able to draw, it was his own personal coping mechanism. Arthur nearly slammed the door to the bathroom as he entered, his bad hand hung limply at his side as the other slid along the wall to help keep himself alright. This was not okay, this was one thing in life that was not okay.

Arthur, with a shaky hand, dropped his backpack onto the sink. He unzipped the smallest pouch, pulling out a large roll of 1/2 inch wide cloth. He grabbed the medical tape as well, having bought all the supplies he could of possibly needed for bandaging wounds. Thinking back to an article he read, he tried to think about how to fix fingers. He knew that with his father, there was no way in hell the man would pay for a trip to the doctors, he'd probably end up making it worse if the Brit complained. With a deep breath, he grabbed the two injured fingers with his other hand, and after a moment of hesitating, he gave the fingers a rough, counterclockwise yank.

A loud, pain filled shout left his lips, followed by several profanities and random sentences strung together about how much he hated Alfred Fucking Jones. Still grimacing and cursing with every touch, he began to tightly wrap the cloth around the two fingers. Making sure they were outstretched and strait, he finally taped the cloth in place to help it act as a splint. For a moment he just stood there, pain coursing through his veins as he held his hand still. Emerald hues were closed tightly, his good hand gripping onto the counter to keep himself up, swaying on his feet slightly. After a moment his vision cleared and he looked up to the mirror.

His eyes were not close to what people would call 'dead' or 'devoid of life'. They were fiery, angry, in agony, and frightened. But at least there was still emotion in them, Arthur feared the day when he'd look in the mirror and see the ghost of a man who'd lost all hope for the world. But with the track he was on, he didn't doubt he'd be seeing that sooner or later. 

Bandaging the other wounds weren't too hard, he'd learnt just how to handle all of them. All he could do with bruises was run cold water over it. As for his bleeding head, he made sure to clean the blood out of his hair the best he could, then apply pressure with bandages until the bleeding stopped completely. He wrapped bandages around his head, just to be safe. Once most of the wounds were taken care of, he stuck his tongue out and looked in the mirror. He winced at the sight of blood drying between his teeth, and he quickly leaned down to rinse his mouth out with the tap water that flowed from the faucet. After a moment, he looked back up. At least he hadn't bitten too hard, and the stud on his tongue seemed to be fine. 

"Okay Kirkland… You're okay.." Arthur whispered, exhaling slowly and letting his body relax for a minute. "Just go back to class… It'll be the weekend before you know it…" After the small speech to himself, he collected his things and cleaned up the bloody bandages, glancing in the mirror. Arthur Kirkland, covered in bandages and bruises, was proud to say he still stood here today. After running a hand through his blood red (literally) dyed hair, and prodding at the forming bruise on his jaw (the black eye he had was colliding with the new injury), he headed out of the restroom. From the kick to his thigh, he limped slightly as he walked, yet Arthur held his head high.

After gathering up his non-destroyed books, he headed on to class, sparing his Spanish teacher a look that the man knew all too well. He was let into the classroom without a commotion, slumping down in the back seat and laying his head on the desk. He didn't know why he bothered to come, usually he ended up skipping and hanging out on the roof. But today, he didn't want to risk more injuries.

* * *

Most bullies had a theory, that their victims went home to a loving and caring family who was there to listen to their problems. They believed that, hey, what does it matter if we call this kid shit? He'll go talk it out with his mum, right? Well, that certainly wasn't the case for the punk. His father was the one person on the face of the planet who he _wouldn't_ go to when it came to problems. His father only caused more problems. 

Arthur sluggishly made his way home after school that day, hugging his backpack to his chest, having had to protect it from harm as he'd passed a few of the jock-fuckhead's just a while back. It had his markers and sketch book in it, he couldn't risk losing that. To his great displeasure, he'd discovered that drawing with his injured hand was impossible, it came out a messed up jumble of lines and crap. During fourth period, however, he'd Googled how long it took fingers to heal. Supposedly, it'd be safe to take off his homemade casts in a little over three weeks… Just three weeks, you can do it, Kirkland. Or at least, that's what he told himself. 

The Brit slowly walked through the overgrown, dying grass of his front lawn. It crinkled and snapped beneath his feet quietly as he approached his 'home'. To Arthur, it was just a house; but _never_ a place he could consider as home for himself. The Brit silently slipped in through the front door, having realized that his father was most likely at work, or buying booze. 

Up the stairs and down the hall, the Brit quickly closed and locked his door behind him. Even though you would of thought with a lazy-ass father, they would of lived in a bad home; it was quite the opposite. Their house was a two story, brick, Italian styled home. They lived in a neighborhood that had five sections, each had a different style of housing from different countries. It was pretty neat, he had to admit. 

Arthur quickly threw his backpack down near the bed, stepping out of his Vans and sighing, gently running a hand through his hair until the bandage stopped him from going any further. He next crawled beneath the sheets of his large, four poster bed. Up on his walls (which were painted a dark blue), were dozens upon dozens of posters of bands. Not to mention some of his best artwork had been put through a copying machine (he always kept the originals safe) and hung up on his walls. Arthur pulled the sheets over his head slowly, wincing at every movement he made. He couldn't budge his legs without his thigh hurting, he couldn't move any part of his face without being in some extreme pain.

Slowly, he hit the application for Facebook on his old, first generation iPhone. 

'Hey' He typed slowly, after going to the chat box for someone he considered to be his only friend, Gilbert. To make a long story short, when Arthur had first moved to America near the end of the summer, Gilbert had been visiting his grandparents, who lived in the German styled homes just a ways away. They'd had a thing. That was about it. Two weeks of making out under an old willow tree in a park nearby, two weeks of hugging each other and watching horror movies and laughing. Two weeks of sweet, caring words to the other, something that to this day, Arthur had to think about to remind himself that he was a human being, and not some piece of trash. For a while, he waited for a response, smiling weakly as his phone buzzed.

'Arthur! Hey, I haven't talked to you in forever bro!' Came in the reply, and in perfect grammar too. And thank god for that, Arthur couldn't stand the 'text typing'. 

'I know, it's been too long! How're you?' Arthur typed in reply, sighing. He wished he and Gilbert would of found a way to keep their relationship going, but even as the older, white haired teen who he'd loved earlier left, they'd both known it was just a summer fling; nothing serious. But oh, it'd been nice to have someone to care for him. 

'I've been great bro! Actually, I have something to tell you!'

'What is it?'

'I got a boyfriend! His name is Vlad, he's great!' 

Arthur looked at the picture attached, sighing softly. On the left was Gilbert; tall, snow white hair and gorgeous, alluring ruby eyes. He had the smile spread across his lips, as always, pearly white teeth shining. For half a moment, Arthur remembered what it felt to run his tongue along those teeth… And on the right was another boy, someone he hadn't seem before. He was dressed as if he was from a time in the past, with a small top hat sitting atop his head. And just like Gilbert, he had a pair of piercing, garnet eyes. Arthur was a bit surprised by this, he'd thought that his old lover's eyes were one of a kind. But oh well… They looked happy together, and that was something he was happy to see. Gilbert had his arm around the other, and the teen with the one, vampire-like tooth was curled up beneath his arm.

'Arthur…? Anyways, his full name is Vladimir! He's great!' Gilbert sent, sending lots of exclamation marks and emoticons to show his happiness.

'That's great! I'm happy to hear it!' He wasn't… Not truthfully, he was envious of Vlad to the tenth degree, but at the same time, he knew it was selfish to not be happy for his one, and only friend. 

Arthur and Gilbert talked for a good portion of the night, about nothing in particular. They Skyped near the end, Arthur hadn't realized how beat up he looked until Gilbert practically had a panic attack over it. Nonetheless, he got to meed Vladimir, and then went off to bed. 

This day really wasn't in his favor.

* * *

 

The rest of his week wasn't any better. He hadn't gotten bullied physically, at least, but the name calling was getting to be a bit much. Then again, twice in one day, a girl had stuck up for him against the jocks. Not that he couldn't take care of himself, but he usually just remained silent and walked by them if it was at all possible. It was slightly ironic, most of the football team liked to beat him up because their girlfriends absolutely _fawned_ over Arthur. Over his accent, his smile, his 'Britishness', as they put it. Not that he really minded.

But then came Thursday. He'd skipped out of his math class in favor of sleeping up on the roof. It was a nice enough day out, the sun was covered by a thin layer of clouds, which casted a rather pleasant shadow down over his body. The bruises he had were well on their way to healing, but his fingers still hurt every time he tried to move them. 

Arthur had been awoken by a sudden start, rather, someone slamming their foot down on his stomach. He'd woken up not able to breathe, coughing and gagging, rolling over onto his stomach to try and prevent further harm. He heard voiced, daunting laughs and puns about him being a useless human being. There was absolutely no time to think, all he could do was try and scramble away from whoever was above him. More kicks and hits to his side and back were received, but he finally gave in when someone pinned him against the wall, their hand gripping against his throat. He was bruised and bloodied, having numerous cuts on his cheeks and body from getting pressed into the cement on the roof's floor. But none of that compared to the immediate panic he felt when he realized the fucking idiot was blocking off his air supply. 

He tried to gasp, to make a noise that signaled this _really_ might kill him. "St-sto-stop it!" Curse his one hand for being useless, all it could do was grip at the ground and try to yank free. His other hand was clawing at the one holding his neck. 

"Hey, bro… You might need to stop, we don't want a murder on our hands…" A nameless jock grumbled, looking around to see if their leader, Alfred, was around. The American always had a good sense of when to stop.

"Ah c'mon, he's fine… Just being a pussy.." The one choking Arthur replied with a little grin, applying even more pressure on his neck. Tears beaded up in the Brit's eyes, struggling and kicking weakly against the other, black dotting his vision at this point. His eyes finally slid closed, just as he felt the pressure be released. Without having the energy to open his eyes, he fell onto his knees, kneeling over the floor as he coughed violently, shaking and shivering. Arthur kept his eyes closed tightly, feeling the salty liquid brimming over the edges, threatening to ruin his eyeliner. Hr heard a voice, someone shouting and chasing everyone off, before he felt a hand on his shoulder.

It wasn't necessarily a kind, gentle hand. Rather one that was forcing him to look up, the fingers slipping beneath his chin and roughly guiding his head. Emerald eyes blinked open slowly, finding that the sun (which was peeking out from the clouds), was far too bright for his liking. For a moment, he was certain his eyes had deceived him, because there was no way the person who knelt in front of him was really there.

"A-Alf-Alfred?" Arthur choked out, his good hand grasping at his neck gently, wincing at the throbbing pain building up in the skin. His breathing was ragged, but at least he was breathing. The Brit glanced over the jocks shoulder, seeing that all the others were scrambling off hastily. The jock didn't look necessarily happy that he had to just claw his friends off of the punk, at the same time it was obvious he tried to force something resembling a smile on his face.

"I-… Don't except my help again, faggot." The American looked as if he had been about to say something, but cut himself off, his exterior hardening as he spat out the words. Arthur could only nod numbly, before the American was standing up and racing off, down the stairs that led to the roof as he followed after his friends. 

Arthur was left on the rooftop alone, he finally resorted to crawling over to his backpack and using it as a pillow. He hid his face under his arm, shaking slightly as tears slid down his cheeks. He bit down on his lower lip, which was cracked and bleeding slightly. For a while he didn't move an inch, staying curled up on the cold, hard cement of the roof. There were little pebbles embedding themselves in whatever inch of flesh they could find, although he paid them no mind. Finally, he started to move as rain poured down from the sky. It started up in an instant, thunder booming loudly as buckets upon buckets drenched Arthur. The Brit cursed as he clumsily stood up, and cowered under the safety of the high school.

He ignored the fact he should be in class, and after leaving his sketch book in his locker (he didn't want it to get ruined), he took off for home. Long ago, Arthur had discovered a few ways to easily escape the school without getting caught, and he used the route of climbing out of an abandoned classroom's window. It was on the first level, so it was only a five or so foot drop down to the ground. Still, every step hurt worse than he could of imagined, not to mention he was still gasping for breath slightly. 

Slowly, he made his way back to his house, getting soaked by the rain as he limped.  

* * *

 

Arthur was at a loss for how he managed to pull himself out of bed the next morning. It'd taken several moments of looking through his phone at old photos of he and Gilbert, before he'd managed to throw on a Piece the Veil t-shirt and a pair of black skinny jeans. As for his usual makeup, he didn't bother. The black eye he had, and the other assorted bruises and cuts, would clearly block out any eyeliner he could put on. The only thing he did do, was coat several layers of foundation on his face and neck. He honest to god hated the stuff, but he couldn't go around with thick, finger-like bruises on his neck. People would get suspicious. 

Slowly, the red-haired punk stepped down the stairs, his injured hand still swinging uselessly at his side, the bandages no longer wrapped around his head. "…Good morning." Came a voice from the kitchen table. Arthur froze instantly, tentatively turning his head to look at the man sitting down, coffee in one hand, the newspaper in the other.

"Good morning, sir." He replied calmly, quietly, as he entered the kitchen. No use to run now, he had a good hour before school began, he knew his father knew that. 

"Make me breakfast." It wasn't a question, rather a demand. Arthur nodded numbly, glancing down to his useless hand, before walking over to the stove. The Brit had used to be an absolutely dreadful cook, and to this day he wasn't exactly what you'd call an amazing one… But after years of his father yelling, and hitting him for burning food, Arthur had learned a few things about something as simple as scrambled eggs and bacon. He walked throughout the kitchen silently, limping slightly as he carried the pan, eggs, and bacon in one hand. Usually, he would of tried to somehow use his other to assist in the matter of making breakfast, but whenever he tried to bend, or move it, pain shot up his arm like there was no tomorrow. Silently, he began to cook, turning on the stove as he went.

There was a good amount of fear coursing through his veins, something he didn't usually feel when around any of the jocks at school. Usually he just felt hate with them, but his father… This man could seriously hurt him, and get away with it; he knew Arthur had nowhere to turn to for help. 

Thankfully, breakfast went without an issue. As quickly as possible, Arthur was speeding out the front door of his house and down the street, thankful that the rain had stopped earlier in the night. His Vans were soaked by the time he got to school from all the puddles he'd stepped in, and he sighed as he pushed open the large and heavy door of the school with his shoulder. In the school he went, trying to avoid bumping into people. He kept his gaze on the ground, blood-red hair falling down in front of his eyes. Although he wore a blank expression, pain shot up his leg with every step, and breathing brought agony to his neck. 

A few teens thought it would be funny to shove him against lockers, but instead of replying with venomous words and insults, he'd just spared them an agitated look before walking on. Arthur made it through most of the day without incident, he narrowly avoided the football team in the hallways on the way to his second period, though.

Last period of the day,  Science.. Right, he could handle this, no big deal… Alfred was in the class as well, sitting in the back. He currently had his tongue down his girlfriends throat, the two locked in each other's arms as they did things Arthur would say were _definitely_ not school appropriate. He quietly took a seat, running his good hand through his hair as he pulled out his notebook. His book had been destroyed earlier on in the week, so he'd have to use one of the schools crappy copies. The bell soon rung, and the American's girlfriend went to sit in the front of the class, separating them a good ways. Arthur, on the other hand, was stuck right in front of the jock, who didn't look too happy that he hadn't got a chance to explore the blond he'd been making out with even more.

Their teacher was a lazy, older woman. All she ever gave was bookwork and assignments that required hours upon hours of going to the library for research. After a moment, she seemed to realize the bell rung and rose up to her feet slowly. "Good morn'n class…" She mumbled, pulling her thick, rather horrendous wool shawl closer around her shoulders. "Today you'll be working together with a partner. I'll be giving you five elements, and it's your job to determine which ones chemically bond based off of the number of valence electrons are in each one. Mind you, you'll have to figure out what they are first, so you'll have to preform a series of tests on them." Everyone in the class groaned, knowing it would be a tediously long task. They'd have to light the bloody things on fire, dump them in water, smash them up and see how long it takes for them to evaporate.. Crap like that. "Go find a partner, everyone."

Alfred immediately looked over to his (current) girlfriend, eyes wide and shining as if he expected a little more than for them to partner up. But the blond had already started squealing about the new One Direction release to one of her friends, it was obvious they'd already paired together. The jock looked around for someone else, but it seemed while he'd been staring at the back of his girlfriends head in class, everyone had been making silent eye contact with one another as if saying 'you are my partner and you get no choice'. Finally, his eyes landed on a head of red hair… Shit. There had to be someone else! The American looked around, seeing he and Arthur were the only ones not already at the lab stations in the back of the room. Fuckidy fuck.

"Yo… You got a partner already?" He questioned quietly as he approached the punk, running a hand through his hair irritably. Arthur seemed to jump like he'd been hit, swinging his head around to look to who was talking to him. Usually the teacher just let him work alone on things like this, and that was what he planned to do… 

"…No." Arthur replied after hesitating for a moment, rising up to his feet. He kept his bad hand hidden away in the grey, Green Day hoodie he'd slipped on upon entering the class. His other hand was trying to grab all his things and shove them into his bag. For a moment, the American's eyes wandered over the other, noticing the odd lack of bruises and cuts on his face. At least, until he saw the line on the side of Arthur's face where he'd stopped putting the concealer on. And for a fraction of a second, he felt pity for the injured teen.

Without speaking another word on the topic, Alfred and Arthur made their way back to one of the lab tables, setting down their things quietly on the floor as the teacher came around, handing out elements. Every time the American attempted to speak to his partner, he realized how Arthur would flinch away slightly, and how he _obviously_ didn't want to talk to him. The blue-eyed teen finally gave up on trying (even though he was mostly trying to insult the other), and began to chop up one of the little blocks of element his teacher had given out. 

They managed to not talk to each other for half of the class, both of them silently did one thing or another and took turns writing down their results on the given paper for the answers. Arthur didn't look well, Alfred realized. Maybe it was the concealer, but he looked paler than normal, and whenever he took a step or moved at all, it was obvious the pain that flashed through his eyes. In all honesty, (even though Alfred wouldn't admit it), he thought Arthur was very.. brave, to put up with being tortured every day. And yet he still stood here, throwing a dirty glance at Alfred whenever he sneered out an insult. 

The Brit was lost in thought as he turned on the flame to the burner, biting down on his split lip slightly as he worked. On one hand, he wanted to deck Alfred, just for all the confused emotions he was causing. Why would he take joy in beating the living shit out of him for three years, but then suddenly turn around and save his ass? That made absolutely no sense!  But on the other hand, he kinda wanted to thank him.

"Um…" Arthur cleared his throat, frowning slightly as he turned his head to look up to the other. Emerald eyes scanned over the curve of his jaw, the way his lips were tightened to form a thin line. The way the sun from the windows hit the frame of his glasses and reflected was rather… intimidating? More like attractive. 

The American turned to face Arthur as soon as he heard the noise, features twisting into a frown immediately. "What?" He questioned, setting down the tools he was using to break up the little element block. Arthur paused, realizing what he was about to say sounded _way_ too nice to be coming from his own mouth. He didn't want to feel indebted to Alfred forever, though.

"Uh… Just-… Thanks, for on the roof yesterday…" Arthur finally managed to spit out, trying to spare a somewhat timid smile before he gave up on the whole 'being nice' thing and went back to working. He doubted Alfred would care, because whatever took over his brain yesterday, wasn't doing so today. Absentmindedly, his good hand went up to rub at his sore throat, wincing as he pressed against the bruised, tender flesh of his neck. 

"Yeah, whatever." Came the quick, snappy response from Alfred, who only turned back to continue working. "… I-I don't plan on doing it again, faggot! So don't get used to it! They were just going too far…" He grumbled after a moment, feeling the need to defend himself. Alfred himself looked rather flustered after speaking, and he couldn't figure out why the word 'faggot' tasted so foul on his tongue. As if he suddenly didn't want to call the other that!

Arthur nodded quickly, keeping his eyes trained on the work in front of him. His writing, which was usually neat and perfect, was slightly sloppier than Alfred's now, considering that his writing hand was out of commission. He'd learned long ago how to use his left hand _slightly_ , but it was still rather poor compared to his normal, calligraphy type handwriting. "Right, right… I know.." He said in response, sighing quietly. "Just… Thanks." 

The air was tense between them, neither saying anything for the longest time. Finally, Alfred spoke up."You probably think I'm the most awful being out there… But really… I'm not." He shook his head "But.. I'll punch ya more if you continue screaming about how you like other dudes everywhere!" He said it, but there was a playful smile on his lips and the whole line had a humorous note to it. Arthur flinched away with the threat of being hit, even though it was obvious that Alfred seemed more relaxed. Now _that_ was what scared him. He was used to people coming up with fists held up, ready to hit him. But when a man walked forward with his hands in his pockets and an innocent smile… _That_ was when to panic. ' _You're not the most awful person out there.. My father is.'_ The Brit thought as he spared the other a weary glance from his place a few feet away. It was true that he didn't hide the fact he was gay, why should he!? In Britain, being gay wasn't bad at all! It was like wearing a pair of brightly colored pants. Sure, you may get some odd looks, but most of the people would think it was pretty cool! 

"Look…" At last, Alfred set down the element he was messing with and turned to face the other. "If I treat you a can of coke and a slice of pizza, will you just stop from dashing away from me each time I'm joking around?" Arthur ran a hand through his hair, sighing lightly. _'Oh yes, because you can make three years of beating the shit out of me immediately go away with an offer of your greasy American food.'_ Arthur thought sarcastically, glad that he'd managed to keep that to himself. Kindness could only go so far. 

"Er… Sure." He mumbled quietly, "But why are you bothering? Don't you have something more important to do?" His tone was a mix of annoyance, and pure confusion. Why was Alfred even bothering with trying to be nice? Maybe because he'd gotten tired of screwing around with the other? 

Alfred seemed a bit taken aback by the question, and he frowned. "Look, don't bother comin' along if ya don't want to, I was just offering… Jeez.." The blue-eyed teen's shoulders hunched slightly as he went back to the experiment. 

"T-that's not what I said… I'll go, I was just wondering…" Arthur mused, wishing he could just curse the other out and things could go back to normal. This was weird. 

"Okay then. We'll go after we get outa here." Alfred declared, and that was that. 

 


	2. Family Problems and Confused Feelings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While both of the boys realize their little pizza-date was a crash and burn, they do everything they can to avoid each other. But an act of pure faith (or annoying parents), they're forced to meet once more in a turn of events.

 

 

**Chapter 2**

**Family Problems and Confused Feelings**

Arthur hadn't the slightest idea why in the world he'd agreed to go out to get pizza with Alfred. It wasn't like anything special had happened. They'd gone to get food, had to pretend to be having a yelling match halfway there so Alfred's teammates wouldn't get suspicious. And once they'd gotten food, they'd sat as far away as they could. Alfred seemed to attempt to create conversation, but the fact that he liked more mellow country music, and Arthur liked screamo; did not mix. Nor did the fact that every time Alfred brought up girls, Arthur winced and dazed off. It wasn't that he disliked girls, necessarily but… Look at it this way. Men, to him, were the finest, sweetest, most delicious food in the world. Created by the best chef, spent time on; hot as fuck. And girls were like that grilled cheese your older sibling made you. With the slightly burnt cheese and the bread that smelled like smoke. If he got hungry enough, he'd eat both. But when it came down to it, of course he'd choose the finely made meal.

So yeah, to say that Arthur deeply, _deeply_ regretted going with the American would be an understatement. It totally wasn't worth his father yelling his head off for him being late. Even when they tried to talk about the best ice cream, for gods sakes. 'Chocolate', 'no fucking way, you British freak, peanut butter', 'go to hell, American slob, it's _chocolate'._ All in all, Arthur had finally made it through the day and gotten home. After sleeping and recuperating slowly, the Brit headed out for school the next morning. His bruises were slow to heal, the skin turning a deep, purplish black color that was almost foul to look at. His drawing hand still had the two fingers that were in his splint, and they still hurt as badly as before. Arthur had _really_ wanted to stay in bed that day, he had a feeling it'd be a total shit week.

Needless to say, once he was at school he lost all will to participate in class, and ended up sleeping strait through first period. He sat in the back of his class, and his Algebra teacher had long ago given up on trying to get him to pay attention. He managed to pass by learning the courses on his phone late at night, and turning in the worksheets and homework a day or two after it was due. By no standards was he passing with flying colors, but at least he wasn't failing. The Brit awoke by the sound of the bell wailing throughout the classroom, he cursed quietly and with his one good hand, he shoved all of his stuff back into his bag. Slinging it over his shoulder, he exited the room before the teacher could stop and lecture him on his hour long nap. 

The day seemed to crawl by, class by class he fell into sleep again and again, and at lunch he simply hid away in the library. His father didn't want him to get a job, and without a job he got no money for food. But all in all, it was an okay day. Then he got home, and his fairly okay mood vanished.

Now, it was a huge understatement to say that Arthur's father was a whore. Although the Brit could never think anything about his father, he knew that technically the man wasn't what some would consider unattractive. He was like one of those movie stars, the ones that were forty-five but still pulling off an attractive look. He wasn't fat or overweight necessarily, and he had Arthur's eyes, although they'd dulled down a bit to an olive green. His smile was like his sons as well, if anyone ever got to see Arthur's. He had dimples, and their eyes seemed to light up when they were truly happy. Sometimes Arthur was disgusted at how alike they could be. Needless to say, the older man often had women over he'd picked up from bars, parks, restaurants, wherever he could get them.

Arriving home from school just on time, Arthur was just about to make a bolt for the safety of his cold, cobweb infested room when he heard a laugh. But not his father's throaty, husky laugh; but a younger woman's. Despite his dislike for his father, curiosity took over and he found himself sneaking through the house, dropping his backpack at the base of the stairs. Curious, emerald eyes peeked from around the curve in the hallway. He sighed quietly to himself as he saw exactly what he speculated he'd see.

"Arthur! Get in here." The older man called, and Arthur could tell he was straining to keep a happy, healthy tone with his son. Nonetheless, he shivered and stepped out from his hiding place, now standing in the doorway of the living room. Now that he wasn't sneaking a glance from the shadows, he could tell the woman his dad had met was indeed, rather attractive. She couldn't be a day over thirty five, and her golden blond hair was tumbling down in messy- yet attractive curls all the way down to the small of her back. Her eyes were a gorgeous endless sea, something Arthur knew his father had probably flirted with her about to get her attention.

"Yes?" Arthur asked after a moment of considering what he said, raising an eyebrow then pretending to notice the women. "Oh, hello ma'am." Arthur immediately said, sparing an innocent little smile that most people couldn't pull off, especially considering all of the black he was wearing that made him look scarily like a rebellious delinquent. He knew that his father went through women like gas stations do condoms, but he knew to be nice so his father couldn't blame him for her leaving him later on. 

"Hello~! It's nice to meet you," She immediately said with the kindest, sweetest of smiles. Arthur immediately felt enveloped in some form of comfort, what most would call a mother's touch. "I've heart a bit about you, you're Arthur, right?" 

"Yes  ma'am, it's nice to meet you as well…" The emerald eyed teen replied quietly, glancing to his father. The man, for once, was looking over to the woman who sat opposite him, eyes wandering slightly. Arthur resisted the urge to retch at the sight, knowing the man simply enjoyed her for her physical attributes. And what a shame, what a wonderful seeming woman she was…

"You can call me whatever you'd like dear, my name's Cynthia." She said in a chipper tone, standing up to hold out a hand to him. He reached out, shaking it before taking a step back, towards the steps. 

"Alright, well," Arthur spared a somewhat forced smile, the small piercing on the tip of his tongue noticeable for half a second before the smile faded. "I've got homework to be doing…" The Brit made it to the steps, still able to see the woman smiling sweetly. "Again, nice to meet you!" He was soon upstairs, in the safety of his room, locked away as he threw on a Green Day album and let to the words of the lead singer bounce around in his head. He sighed, flopping down onto the bed and wincing as he accidentally fell wrong. Well, there wasn't actually a right way to fall, there was just pain in every step he took. The Brit lay on his side, curled up as he brought his hand to his face to look at. The fingers were bruised, taking their goddamn time to heal. Letting his hand fall against the sheets, Arthur frowned lightly, hating the person he was related to before slowly, the days events drained him and he fell into sleep.

* * *

 

Arthur was pleasantly surprised to find that the rest of his week hadn't gone too badly. One more half-assed beating when he'd run into one of the football players on his way home from school, but the overweight jocks hits were soft, not even hard enough to leave a mark. In addition, the wounds on most of his torso and legs weren't as bad as they used to be, it no longer hurt to _very slowly_ lay down and sleep on his stomach. It was an annoying thing, to see his father continuously flirting with the woman-Cynthia- who just kept coming back. Arthur wondered how in the world she hadn't yet realized that a lowly, whorish scumbag he was. And yes, that was a rough accusation to make, but Arthur had personally caught his father cheating on more than three women at a time. 

Finally, Friday night rolled around and Arthur was graced-or sentenced- with the knowledge that Cynthia was bringing her son over for a 'family dinner'. It was almost funny, because Arthur knew his father was way in over his head with the blond woman. 'Family dinner' sounded like something you did to break the news about your dog dying, or some shit. Around 8:30 at night, Arthur ascended from his room, making no sound as he hopped down the steps. He was stopped at the last one by his father, who looked surprisingly, nicer than usual. He'd put on a a collared shirt and black slacks, and overdosed his hair with gel. 

"Now you listen here," The older man said in a stern tone, shaking his finger in front of the teenager's face, "you're not to screw this up, in _any_ way, do you hear me boy? No talking about your 'queerness' or any of those delinquent friends of yours- oh excuse me, you don't have to worry about them; they don't exist."

Ouch. Arthur winced at his words alone, jaw tightening as he slowly took a step backwards, up the steps as his eyes narrowed at the man. That was just uncalled for. "I won't, sir." The dyed-red head replied calmly.

"Apparently her son's some work of art, football player'n all. I don't want you so much as talking to him unless he talks to you first, do you hear me?"

"Yessir."

"And I don't want you dressed like some idiot, go change."

"Yessir."

"And also-"

"James, honey, the stew's almost ready!" Came an excited sounding feminine voice from the kitchen. Arthur's father stopped his quiet lecturing, turning around to look in the general direction of the doorway. 

"Be right there! One moment doll!" He replied, most of his accent from Britain gone, although the dialogue that accompanied it hadn't. James, as Arthur had almost forgotten was his father's name, turned back to face Arthur. Before he could speak once more, Arthur did the talking. 

"You know sir, I think it's as shallow as shit to do what you're doing. She seems like a nice lady, just do her a favor and leave her be so she won't have wasted her time on you." Arthur was up the steps once more before his father could even react, closing the door quietly and locking it with a shaky sigh. He knew he had a minute or two before he had to go down there, hopefully that was enough for James to think through the fact it wasn't smart to start a fight right when he heard the doorbell ring; signaling that Cynthia's son had arrived. 

Arthur exhaled shakily, looking around his room. The walls were a dark blue color, almost black from the normal person's eye. But to an artist, even the slightest change meant it was nothing near the color of black, which in purity was a gorgeous and very strong color. The walls were mostly covered in posters of bands, a few of his drawings here and there, duct taped up. Even his first few report cards, the ones where he'd still cared about grades. Then his eyes landed on his outfit, and he sighed. Ripped up black jeans and a Pierce the Veil sleeveless shirt were in retrospect-not the best thing for this so called family dinner.

He quickly changed into a slightly more appropriate pair of black jeans, which hung looser and if one didn't look too closely, they _might_ resemble black slacks. He slipped on a black collared shirt, buttoning it up all the way and making sure that the fading bruises were hidden beneath it on his neck. Arthur glanced in the mirror doubtfully, knowing the bruises on his face were still a light tinge of purple. If one loosed closely enough, they'd see them. Then again, who cared? Who even cared about the bruises? Plus, he could hear his father calling him down, saying something about him holding them all up. Sighing lightly, he ran a comb through his blood-red hair, before padding down the steps and past his father, strait into the kitchen. Arthur could feel a knot forming deep in the pit of his stomach as he did so, shoulders tensing as if he was expecting to get hit. But no fists swung his way; at least not physically.

In his kitchen stood Alfred F. Jones. Chipper as always, he was talking to Cynthia, chatting away with the happiest and sweetest of expressions on his face. His eyes were just like the sea, Arthur realized with a little shock they resembled his mother strongly. Arthur stood in the doorway shellshocked, just as Alfred looked over. Their gazes met, and by the absolutely horrified look that slipped onto Alfred's face soon after seeing the Brit, it was obvious neither of them had expected this. Alfred's jaw dropped slightly, one eyebrow shooting upwards, the other creasing in a confused and all over annoyed look. 

Cynthia seemed not to notice the two's glaring, as she pranced over to Arthur and smiled, doing a motherly motion and pressing an innocent kiss to his forehead. "Alfred, this is James' son! Arthur, this is my boy, Alfred." She did the introducing, although they were hardly strangers. 

Alfred was the first to speak. He broke the glaring competition between the two of them, regaining his composure and looking at the woman he strongly resembled. "Arthur and I go to school together, isn't that right, _Artie_?" 

Arthur nearly wretched at the nickname, his expression turning from that of shock to one of disgust, before he quickly changed it to a calm, sedated one. "Yes, _Alfie_ and I have several of our classes together." He replied, laying on the nickname like it was a slap to the head. Their words were like daggers slicing through the tense room, yet Alfred's mother remained oblivious as she only smiled. 

"Oh that's wonderful! What cute little pet names for each other~" She replied in a singsong voice, before stepping over a few feet to pull the stew off of the burner. Alfred's smile-obviously fake- died the second she turned away, his expression souring as he looked over to Arthur, taking a step closer to him.

"My mom's dating _your_ dad? Gross…" The honey blond whispered in a sour tone. 

"Agreed." The punk replied quite simply, avoiding any and all eye contact as his father came in, mumbling something to him about setting the tables. He hurried to do as he was told, laying out place mats and whatnot. Alfred was glaring daggers into the Brit's back the whole time, trying to trip him up once or twice. It seemed their earlier meeting to get food had done little to nothing at all to help their relationship.  

But other than that they refused to talk, at least until they all got seated and began to eat. Since Arthur hardly ever had a chance to eat such sweet, rich tasting home-cooked food, his stomach could only support so much before he slowed down to a nibble. His ears were more effective than radars, listening to their conversation intensely. Once or twice he'd looked over to his father, only to find the man had his eyes trained on a similar pair of sapphire ones. Huh. Maybe this one time, he wasn't just looking at a chicks rack? Arthur gave up on caring, looking back down to his food as he tried to avoid getting anyone's attention.

"So Arthur," Fuck, so much for that hope. The Brit looked up to the woman who was speaking, clearing his throat to show he was listening. "you and Alfred know each other? That's such a relief to hear! I was hoping you two would of known each other from school…" She seemed not to need an answer or reassurance, rather she seemed pleased with the idea they knew each other. Her lips parted, then stopped as her eyes scanned over the punks face. Faint, but there outlines showed bruises on his cheek, the one he tried to keep hidden by turning his head and looking down. "Sweetie? Are those bruises on your face?"

Now it was Alfred's turn to tense up, along with Arthur's father. Both the American teen and the older man glanced at each other as only they noticed their reactions, eyes locking for half of a second. Alfred hastily looked away, slightly rattled with his new discovery- or at least an idea. Arthur glanced from the American to his father, worry welling up in the pit of his belly. No way could Alfred guess about his father's true colors by a simple tense of the shoulders. It was natural for a father to be slightly concerned about bruises on his son, right?

"Oh, um… Yes, but I just fell and hit my cheek, I'm a klutz…" Arthur replied after a seconds thought, a hand subconsciously moving up to touch it, wincing and dropping his hand.  

"I saw your hand earlier too, dear. Did you hurt that then as well?" Cynthia asked. It wasn't a hard question, she didn't doubt his answer. She simply was curious. 

"Yes ma'am," Arthur sighed, pulling the injured hand out from underneath the table, letting it rest on the napkin he had next to his plate. "I fell down the stairs at school a few days ago… Landed wrong, I s'pose." He filled his mouth with a large bite of the stew to busy himself, and hopefully take the spotlight off of him. It seemed to work, after a brief worry session from the woman, mumbling something about her taking a look at the bruises, she went back to talking to James. 

Alfred meanwhile, was looking from Arthur, then to his father. Catching the punk's gaze, he raised an eyebrow at him then smirked. 'Good lying,' he mouthed, taking a sip of his coca-cola. Arthur didn't know whether to reply sarcastically or just roll his eyes, so he opted for doing both. 

'Your fault in the first place.' Arthur's lips moved yet no sound came out, and he spared one last almost venomous glance before sipping at his water, his useless hand resting on the table. Alfred's shoulders seemed to slowly slack once he realized he was out of the water, a soft sigh passing his lips. His mother was the one person he refused to let know what he did at school. The way he acted and the people he beat up were his problem, his own secretive meanings. And he would not let his mom worry about them. 

Arthur felt a foot slam into his calf and he coughed to cover up a cry of pain, his good hand shooting down to grab at the injured area, eyes snapping over to glare daggers at Alfred. 'What the holy fuck?' He mouthed, rubbing at the area and deeming there would be a new bruise there. Goddamn, just when he was starting to get rid of all those ugly bruises.

'Tell your dad to fuck off and leave my mom alone.' Alfred mouthed, Arthur having to tilt his head to show he didn't understand. Alfred mutely repeated the lip movements, Arthur raising an eyebrow and rolling his eyes.

'Tell your mom to leave my father alone, I can't control the man,' He mouthed back. And it was true, he had no intention of telling his father to back off, he'd already sassed him at the bottom of the stairs. Alfred's mouth formed to a thin line, and he looked back down to his food. It was obvious by his slumped shoulders and frown that he was agitated, but Arthur took a wild guess in saying Alfred and James both knew they couldn't start anything. Cynthia seemed to be the only one who was oblivious to all of the tension between the three, she continued to merrily chat away as their dinners were slowly picked away at.

Half an hour of agonizing silence later, dessert was brought out, although Arthur excused himself up to his room before hand claiming he had homework to do. All he ended up doing though was taking off the black jeans and throwing on a pair of loose sweat pants, also taking off the button up shirt in favor of a large hoodie. He then crawled into his bed, putting in his ear phones and listening to MCR full blast. The room was completely dark, his lamp bulb had died a month ago and he hadn't been able to go buy a new pack of lightbulbs, so he rested in darkness for then.

Arthur had almost managed to fall asleep, until his phone -which had been set on a bedside table- buzzed. Picking it up, he saw a Facebook message from none other than Gilbert, and he smiled lightly. Their conversation was simple, the normal, otherwise boring conversation. But Arthur enjoyed every little emoticon sent his way, chuckling softly at each one as he typed longer replies than needed. He could tell Gilbert was occupied, and about half an hour after they started talking the Prussian admitted, 'Vlad and I are kinda making out… Sorry Art, can I talk to you later?' and Arthur's heart sank. 

'Of course! Have fun ;) ' He sent, then tossed his phone across the room with an agitated growl. It wasn't like he still liked Gilbert, but in all honesty, he _really_ wanted someone to make out with. As much as he craved being loved and cared for, he also wanted to feel some guy reaching for his belt buckle. God, _any_ kind of contact would be great. He'd only had his own hand and videos to survive off of since his two week summer fling with Gilbert. 

"Why the fuck did you throw your phone?" Arthur jumped ten feet into the air as he heard a voice coming from the door, sitting upright and squinting through the partial darkness to see Alfred. Light was flooding in through the door as the American pushed his way in, raising an eyebrow inquisitively at him.

"N-no fucking reason. Why the hell're you up here, Jones?" Arthur snapped back, pulling a blanket around his shoulders and curling up in his bed, still managing a glare. He _so_ was not in the mood to get beaten to a bloody pulp at the moment, if he could help it. 

"Our parents are making out on the couch." Alfred replied simply, making a 'blegh' sound and sticking out his tongue. Arthur sighed, _'It appears everyone's making out tonight.. Hope Gil's having a good time.'_ Arthur thought sarcastically, sitting up on the bed and leaning up against the wall that was right behind him, still hiding beneath the blanket.

Arthur made a face too at what the other said, chuckling dryly. "At least there's one thing we can agree on," He remarked, "Our parents need to stop seeing each other…" 

Alfred shrugged, ignoring common curtesy to ask about moving about in his room, walking over to Arthur's CD collection, grabbing a more common Maroon 5 album and putting it in the player, hitting the play button. "Yeah. I mean, it wouldn't be so bad if he weren't _your_ dad… Mom seems pretty happy with him, so I mean…"

"My father's a whore, you'd do well to steer your mother away from him… And I thought you said you liked country music." Arthur changed the subject, glancing over to him with a raised eyebrow.

Alfred said nothing about the comment on Arthur's parent, instead turning away to look at Arthur's impressive CD collection, blocking his blushing face from Arthur's view. "Pfft… I had a friend suggest this band yesterday, so I went home and watched a few of their videos… They don't _totally_ suck ass, I guess…" 

Arthur snickered, flopping back on the bed and wincing at a pain in his side. "You bloody git, I can tell you looked them up after I told you about them…" 

"You British liar! Don't make up things I never said!"

"Oh, so you thought it then?"

"No fucking way! God, why'd I come in here anyways…?"

"Because our parents are sucking their souls out of each other with their mouthes."

"…" Alfred huffed, falling back onto the bed next to Arthur, looking to the ceiling with a frustrated look. His hair was messed up, cowlick bouncing randomly. Arthur's eyes nonchalantly roamed over the other's body, licking his lips as he noticed how the American's shirt had come up. Just enough for him to get a good lick at the delectable curves of his hips, and the well chiseled abs… "How about you not stare at my groin and make this awkward?" Alfred said suddenly.

Arthur rolled his eyes, looking away nonetheless, pretending not to be phased. Shit. Usually he was a pretty subtle starer, though his imagination had got the best of him that time. "You're the one making it awkward doll, I was simply observing." 

Alfred 'hump'ed, pulling his shirt down and rolling on his side, facing away from the other. "Whatever, mom said we could leave at ten… I've got like, five minutes. How about you just not try and, like, 'queer'ize me."

"Is that a challenge?" Arthur said in a teasing tone, before resting his head on a pillow. For  the next minute or so, the room was silent, only the two teens slow and calm breathing bouncing off of the walls. Arthur held his blanket to his chest, which was a rather large, torn up thing. It was a faded maroon color, with little bunnies and ducks stitched into it. Call it whatever you will, it'd been his mothers, and she'd gave it to him when he was born. It helped him calm down in even the roughest of days. 

"You draw?" Alfred asked out of the blue, sitting up and looking at the drawings all over the walls, sapphire eyes wide as he observed the finely done detail.

"I would think you would have known, with all of my damn drawings you and your crew've ripped up…" Arthur mumbled back with a hint of sarcasm, remembering all the torn drawings that he'd wanted to _kill_ someone for destroying. Alfred seemed to ignore this, hopping up and walking over to the ones on the walls, glasses gleaming as he observed the little buttons, and the strings holding them onto the fabric.

Arthur heard a whisper that sounded something like, "Amazing…" but quickly dismissed it as nothing, looking up to the ceiling, hoping Alfred didn't try to destroy something in his room. "Do you draw real people too?" He asked.

"I suppose so. If they're people who don't annoy me." Arthur replied honestly.

"Would you draw me?"

"No."

"Why not?" Alfred questioned, sounding slightly hurt.

"Two reasons. One, you decided it would be wise to break bones in my drawing hand," as if to prove his point he held up the injured hand in the air, "and two, you annoy me."

Alfred frowned and looked at the Brit's hand, opening his mouth and closing it again. "I didn't mean to _break_ anything..." He replied after a moment of thought, keeping his eyes trained on the drawing plastered on the wall in front of him.

"Well you did." Arthur replied in a slightly offended tone, scoffing and rolling over to face away from him, cradling his hurt hand as if it were a fresh wound.

"Sorry." Alfred breathed in response simply, walking over to Arthur's messy, disorganized table. His fingers grazed over the scattered drawings, leafing through them and stacking them all in a pile on the corner of his desk.

Arthur's eyes widened, sitting up and sparing a glance over his shoulder to the other. Alfred, apologizing? He'd never heard of such a thing. The Brit opened his mouth to speak as the door opened and Cynthia-Mrs. Jones, as Arthur had started to call her-walked in.

"Sorry to hold you up dear, we can go now~" She said in the same cheery, singsong tone, smiling over to Alfred. The American looked over to his mother, smiling airily.

"Right.. I'll be right down, one minute." Mrs. Jones nodded and closed the door, leaving the two alone again. Alfred opened his mouth, brows creased as he started to speak, then stopped. After a moment of the two staring at each other, Alfred closed his mouth and walked to the door.

"Goodnight," The blue-eyed teen mumbled, turning off the radio he'd turned on, "Um… See you tomorrow, I guess?"

Arthur sighed, wishing they wouldn't see each other again, but knowing with their parents (and based off of the hickies he'd seen on Mrs. Jones' neck), he doubted they would break up anytime soon. "Yes," he drawled, "See you tomorrow, Alfred."

 

* * *

 

Surprisingly enough, the weekend went by well, more than that even. Arthur was fed by his father once a day, and while that didn't sound great in retrospect, but for someone like Arthur who was fed once in a fortnight, food was a blessing. Especially considering the fact that his father hadn't yelled or scolded him once. He had to wonder what was going through that man's head, why he was so... different, than usual. Not to say that he was nice or kind on any means, but he certainly restrained from physically hurting the other. Arthur had come up with the conclusion that his father was trying to keep bruises off of his son, so Cynthia didn't suspect anything.

Mrs. Jones and Alfred had come over once more on Saturday night, though Arthur played sick to avoid talking to any of them. When he heard Alfred walk up the steps and knock on his door, he simply let out a soft and fake snore to convince the other he was asleep. Finally Monday rolled around and for the first time in years, Arthur felt a bit more hopeful about going to school.

As he woke up earlier in the morning, Arthur pulled up a pair of dark grey skinny jeans and slid a studded black belt through the loops, having to tie it tighter than usual. He glanced to his pale, almost concaving stomach with a soft sigh. Despite the food he'd eaten over the weekend, he was still paler and skinnier than a normal teenager should be. And it wasn't getting any better, yet he couldn't bring himself to care. Arthur next pulled on a Black Veil Brides short-sleeved shirt, grabbing a black jacket and tossing it on over just for warmths sake. Next he pulled on all of his wrist bands, sucking lightly on his tongue ring thoughtlessly as he did so, being careful not to hit his injured fingers by doing so.

And off to school he went, after lining his eyes with a black eyeliner pencil, of course. No point in boring you with details on his day, it seemed that the team was almost wear of him. As he walked from class to class, even if he ran into a jock they'd just glare at him, before skirting off to go do something else. All in all, the entire _week_ passed without as much as a new scratch or bruise. Arthur wasn't sure whether or not to be worried or happy about this. On one hand, everyone had realized he was a human being with feelings and they'd backed the fuck off. But on the other hand, some jock with a pea-sized brain was planning some fucked up shit to do to him.

By the next Friday evening, the bruises on Arthur's body had all but healed completely. His fingers, while they hurt to bend, had been freed from the makeshift cast and were now being used again. Arthur still had a one hour limit on drawing though, because whenever he tried to hold his fingers in such a tedious and steady position, they cramped and hurt and it sucked _balls_.

Mrs. Jones and his father, to his greatest displeasure, had been only getting a stronger relationship. He couldn't tell if his father simply liked the woman for her figure, or something else. It wouldn't be hard after all, she was a sweet, kind, good-cooking lady who seemed to see through the foul man that was his father. Nonetheless, he worried about the whole scenario. Not only because Cynthia would get hurt if they broke up, but Alfred would be mad. And if Alfred got mad, he'd take it out on Arthur. Arthur could already imagine Alfred being beyond pissed off, enough so to purposely break his fingers again.

It was colder than usual that day on his way home from school, and he found himself jogging lightly, already thinking about the Sherlock marathon he planned on having that night. Oh, the thought of hot tea (the cheap, bagged stuff he'd managed to get his hands on earlier on in the week) and an oversized, fluffy blanket that Cynthia had left over was simply too divine to ignore. But when he hopped up the creaking, close-to-snapping stairs of his front porch, Arthur instantly realized something was wrong; terribly, terribly wrong.

The house, which had been surrounded by a nonexistent forcefield of happiness for the past week or so, had snapped. The grass on the lawn looked deader than usual, the paint chipping off of the front door was worse, rough and splintering to the touch. Although nothing was _off_ , per-say, but Arthur instantly _knew_ he shouldn't go back in that house. But where else could he go? After a brief glance to the poorly parked car in the garage, the Brit shoved his key into the creaking lock, having to shoulder open the door. He coughed as the overwhelming smell of alcohol hit him like a train, and he stepped outside of the house for a good moment. Good _lord_ , he'd forgotten how foul that smell was. It stung his eyes, made it painful to breathe.

After inhaling a deep breath of the now sweet smelling outside air, Arthur stepped inside and closed the door, having to make sure he didn't step on a vodka bottle. The floorboards creaked more than normal, and he glanced to the stair steps. Even they seemed further down the hall than normal, it seemed like one of those nightmares where if he tried to run towards them, they'd only get further and further away.

"Sir?" Arthur called out in a hesitant voice, walking in the opposite option of the steps, going into the living room instead. He retched in surprise and disgust as a thicker smell caught him by surprise. ' _I didn't think it was possible for a house to smell so bad in one day,'_ He thought, looking through the dark, damp seeming room. The faded blue curtains were messily yanked over the cracked windows, only letting little slivers of grey light in. The TV was on, but it was the silent eery static that Arthur really despised. Arthur jumped suddenly as he heard the old ottoman's chair in the corner creak, and he looked over to see his father slowly standing up. "O-oh, I didn't see you..." He said in an almost panicked tone, not able to see anything other than a dark silhouette of what he presumed to be his father.

The man was slumping, beard seeming more unshaved than usual as he clung to an empty clouded bottle in his right hand. "You..." James hissed, hiccuping as he took a stumbling step forwards.

At the same time, Arthur stepped back, eyes widening a bit as he glanced to the stairs. "Are you alright, sir?" He asked, clearing his throat and attempting to make light of the conversation by picking up a bottle or two off of the floor. "It's not very clean in here, Cynthia won't be please... Why don't I clean this u-"

"Don't you _dare_ mention her name... This-this is _your_ fault!" His father's voice suddenly raised into a screech, as he seemed to come to a false conclusion. Arthur stumbled back suddenly, the empty bottles falling out of his hands and onto the floor with a loud clashing sound.

"What-!? No, I didn't-" Arthur's eyes widened as something flew through the air, realizing it was the bottle his father had been holding onto a mere second before it came into rough contact with his forehead. Arthur let out a short, cut-off shriek in both surprise and pain, before his body slumped to the floor and the world went black.


	3. Booze and Lap Dances

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the two teenagers slowly forget the harsh past they shared, Arthur asked (forces) Alfred to take him out to a 'cool kids party'. Not only does he meet an important Nordic friend there, but he also gives a little dance to a certain someone~

**Chapter 3:**

**Booze and Lap Dances**

Arthur couldn't quite remember what had happened as he woke up a good while later in a small pool of his own blood. The first sign of his consciousness was a quiet groan, then his eyes fluttering open just a bit. His body felt ten times heavier than it ever had, almost like someone was pinning him down with the weight of an elephant. But after a moment of slowly bending his fingers and toes, trying to regain feeling in his body, he slowly managed to lose the extra weight baring down on him, and he sat up. He realized almost immediately that surrounding his head had been a small pool of blood, and no doubt the crusty, drying liquid was all over the side of his face and his forehead, and it'd matted up his already-blood red hair.

He inhaled sharply as the memory of the flying bottle slowly pieced itself together in his mind, and he shivered, wrapping his arms around himself as he looked around. It was just the same as it had been before, bottles lying askew. Although, it didn't smell quite as bad. Arthur could only guess his father had bolted off to another bar after throwing the bottle. For a moment he gave up on his defenses and let out a soft sniffle, lips turning down into a quivering frown as he looked to the ground, leaning against the wall close to him and hiding his head gingerly in his knees. His body hurt, all over. He had no doubt his father had probably 'nudged' him with his toe once or twice in the stomach to see if he was okay before he'd taken off. It would sure explain the fact it hurt to breathe regularly.

After a moment he slowly inhaled, letting the breath go as slowly as he could to calm his nerves. He _hated_ that feeling, that feeling where the world seemed like it held nothing in his favor. There wasn't one person, one single damn human being, or even a pet cat he could talk to about his issues. His mom, although she'd promised to get him back over to England after he graduated, hadn't contacted him in the past half year. Well, Arthur didn't count those short, 'Love you!' texts he got once every other week. He used to reply with long texts, begging, pleading for her to somehow sum up the money to at least take him away from his father. But she never even responded to those. He had a sickening feeling it was his youngest brother sending those texts just so Arthur wouldn't feel so alone.

The Brit placed one hand on the wall, slowly willing himself to his feet. Instantly, the room swayed, and he leaned heavily into the darkly colored wall, groaning quietly. There was another feeling he despised, dizziness. After a while of mentally willing himself to move, he managed to make it up the stairs and into his bathroom. Closing the door with a shaky hand, he turned on the light and quite literally _yelped_ at his reflexion. Blood covered a good portion of his face, not to mention the bags under his eyes, or all the small cuts that were all over his forehead. He looked like he'd run through a goddamn glass door. He sighed, grabbing a pair of tweezers and leaning over the sink, steadying his head with one hand, observing the two small glass shards embedded in his skin. Sucking in a breath to prepare himself, he took hold of one of the pieces, then slowly pulled it out of his skin.

A low groan of pain slipped from his lips as he pulled it out, letting the bloody shard of glass drop into a trashcan as he quickly got the second out of his head, swallowing thickly as he reached for a washcloth. This was scary. There was no other way to say it, but it was scary that Arthur's father had flung a bottle so violently, he'd left his son in a pool of his own blood. That just showed how little he actually cared for him. Arthur wet the cloth with water, leaning against the wall slightly as he slowly cleaned away at the dried blood, revealing one or two deeper cuts, then half a dozen or so smaller ones scattered around that one spot. Not to mention all of the skin there was bruised.

After cleaning the blood up, he began the slow process of cleaning it with alcohol, and oh-so carefully covering all of them in bandages before he sluggishly moved to his room, where he collapsed limply onto the bed. He curled up in the oversized blanket that Cynthia had left over, burying his nose in it and inhaling slowly. It was the one thing in the house that didn't smell like alcohol. The one thing that was pure.

And that was how he calmed himself down from the state of fear he was in, inhaling and exhaling slowly, absorbing the sweet scent. He didn't even care that it smelled like Alfred just a bit. He just wanted to think about _anything_ but his father, and the hellish home he lived in. Ten minutes later and Arthur had almost managed to drift off. It was already 8:00PM, the sky slowly getting darker and darker. But the Brit had no doubt his dad would be out for at least five more hours. That was when he heard a knock on the door of his bedroom. He jumped a foot up in the air, almost literally, as he looked over to see Alfred standing in an open doorway.

His mouth went dry, realizing he'd left his door open, not to mention the front door had probably been unlocked. With a churn of his stomach he realized how weak and vulnerable he must of looked, half awake and with half of his face bandaged up. "..A-Alfred..." He said after a moment in a weaker tone than he would of liked, staying curled up in the soft blanket, clinging onto it like a lifeline.

Alfred didn't look too pleased to be there either. He was standing in the doorway with hunched shoulders, combing a hand through his messy honey-blond hair, eyes averted from the other. "My mom said she wanted her damn blanket back, or somethin'..." He grumbled awkwardly, slowly glancing over to the Brit.

"Oh." _'It'll be so simple to get him to leave. Just give it to him. Give it up Arthur.'_ The emerald-eyed teen thought to himself, looking down to the soft, faded maroon blanket. "Well, I, um..." ' _Give it back, dammit.'_

"Oh, and she... Also said somethin' bout me checking up on you or some shit?" Alfred continued after a moment, seeming irritated he had to ask such a question. "I mean... She just said your dad was some stuck up asshole and.. _she_ wanted to make sure you were alright." Alfred's words seemed forced, but not fake. Just like he was having trouble saying them, having trouble admitting it. But why? If he was just conveying some message.

"I'm perfectly alright. Here's your blanket." Arthur replied cooly, almost reluctantly unwrapping himself from the blanket and holding it out to him with near-shaking arms. Yet Alfred didn't take it, rather he pushed it back at him thoughtlessly, letting it drape back around Arthur's shoulders.

"There's literally a pool of blood on the floor downstairs and it smells like you doused the place in the worst-brand beer." Alfred retorted calmly, although there was a hint of agitation in his tone.

"I'm fine, just an accident."

"He threw something at you, didn't he? That's why you've got all of those bandages..."

"No, he didn't. I slipped on a bottle."

"You may be a clumsy queer, but you're not _that_ stupid."

"Maybe I am that fucking stupid. Why does it matter? Tell your mum I'm perfectly fine, and get the hell out of my house."

Alfred seemed to be very torn, his mouth opening then closing again as he debated on what to say. He was still in the doorway, although his fists were clenched and he was leaning forward a bit. "Goddammit, I'm bothering to give a shit. Why don't you just shut the hell up and let someone be worried, for once."

"I would let someone be worried, but not you. Because you hate me, and I hate you, there's _no_ kind of worry between the either of us." Arthur snapped back, sitting in the middle of the bed with the blankets draped around his shoulders, covering a good portion of his face. He was attempting to hide all of the bandages.

" _Shut the fuck up_ ," Alfred hissed suddenly, walking across the room at an alarming speed, grabbing Arthur by the collar of his shirt and pulling him up off the bed a bit. "You don't get to fucking _say_ if I'm worried or not. I can be fucking _worried_ if I want to be. And don't say that I hate you."

Arthur squeaked as his shirt was grabbed, a hand shooting out to hold onto Alfred's wrist, trying to prevent him from pulling his shirt up any further. "L-let me go!" He could feel a bit of fear building up in the pit of his stomach, and he struggled against the American's grasp. He really couldn't afford yet another bruise on his face.

It took Alfred a split second to realize his other hand was curled up into a fist, and he'd let his anger get the better of him. He abruptly let go of the Brit, taking several steps back, unfurling the both of his hands. It was almost painful to watch Arthur sink back down, hide under the covers partially. He was dizzy again, his body not wanting to move. "I-..." The American made a 'tsk' sound, scoffing as he walked over to the door. "I'm going to be downstairs watching something, come down whenever."

"Alfred, this isn't your house." Arthur pointed out in a quiet, but assertive tone.

"Yeah? Well I, being your father's ex-girlfriend's son, get's to yell at him for being a low-life, retarded, worthless piece of shit to my mom. Stay up here if you want, but I'm hanging around until he get's back." Alfred stormed out of the room and stomped down the steps, Arthur could hear angered muttering as the tv flickered to life. Some sitcom was on, Arthur could easily distinguish the cheesy female actress sobbing hysterically over something that was probably unimportant. He lay back down under the blanket, burying his face in a pillow and staying there, even though the applied pressure to the injuries on his head didn't feel wonderful. He was just thankful it was the weekend, and he had another day to rest before he had to go back to hell.

Another hour of laying there and he started to get paranoid about the fact Alfred was in his house. Hell, he could of been doing anything. Going through his or his dads stuff, finding things he shouldn't have... Hopping out of bed, he stopped by the bathroom on his way down to look at the bandage he'd applied to his head just to make sure his head had stopped bleeding. He walked down the stairs slowly, glancing to his left to see Alfred, plopped down on the couch and eating a bowl of popcorn.

"I never said you could have that, you know." Arthur said in a low, emotionless tone. It wasn't like he meant it, he just couldn't accept the thought that Alfred didn't completely hate his guts. Alfred shrugged slightly and rolled his eyes.

"Bite me..." The American mumbled in reply, glancing over to the Brit after a moment and rolling his eyes. "And knowing you, I have to say _not literally_ , I don't want your teeth anywhere near me."

"Damn right you don't... Hand it over." Arthur grumbled, taking a seat in an comfortable arm chair near the couch, reaching over when the popcorn was handed to him. He grabbed a handful, sitting back and plopping the pieces in his mouth one by one. He looked over to see Alfred was watching the last thing he expected to see. "You're watching... Sherlock?" Arthur asked, sparing a questioning glance in the direction of the honey blond. Alfred frowned slightly, glancing to the remote as if debating to change it.

"Well... There was nothing else on, and I remember you mentioning it was a good show earlier on... Whatever, I'll just turn the damn news on if it's that big of a deal." Alfred seemed to get embarrassed for a moment, reaching for the remote. Arthur suddenly remembered that awkward pizza meal he'd shared with Alfred all that time ago. He remembered _very briefly_ bringing up Sherlock. Wow, to be honest Arthur hadn't thought he'd been paying any attention at all to what he'd said.

"No, no, by all means, leave it on... This is a good episode." Arthur mused after a moment, leaning back into the plush chair.

"Yeah..." Alfred seemed to realize that he'd agreed with the other, and quickly came up with a way to argue. "But they're totally gay, like, ew."

Arthur crinkled his nose at the second comment, deciding not to risk getting in an argument. He went silent, mouth forming a thin line as he pulled his knees into his chest, resting his chin on his knees. The wound on his head felt terrible, sending waves of pain throughout his body every time he tried to move. He glanced over to the dried blood on the floor, figuring if his father wanted to hide the fact he abused his son, he could clean it up his damn self. "Is it... Really hard for you to accept the fact that two people can be in love? Regardless of gender?" Arthur mumbled after a moment, keeping his eyes on the blood for a while before looking up to the tv. Alfred seemed to tense up at this reasoning, frowning.

"It's just the fact they think they're so high and mighty! And they hit on us _straight_ people all the damn time!" Alfred replied in defense, raising his voice a bit more than he should have. "And nothing's more gross than being hit on by the same gender! Like, the Bible said it's a sin!"

"The Bible also says, and I quote, 'You are to keep My statutes. You shall not breed together two kinds of your cattle; you shall not sow your field with two kinds of seed, nor wear a garment upon you of two kinds of material mixed together'." Arthur stated word for word. He always liked to use that simple argument, it made lots of sense. "Looks like we're both going to bloody hell, Alfred, we're mixing cotton with polyester. And plus, last time I checked you weren't even religious."

"Well... The bible was just _confused_ then! And I'm not, but it's a- it's like a-..." Alfred trailed off, not able to find the correct words.

"A good scapegoat for why people shouldn't be able to love freely?" Arthur mused dryly in response, "And who's to say that if it was confused then, why not when it says people can't be gay?"

Alfred was more or less, speechless. Arthur struck several wonderful points right on the head, not leaving much room for argument. "It's just... Gross, to be hit on by dudes... And when they won't leave ya alone even when you ask 'em to..."

"Alfred, I can't tell you how many times I've seen boys keep going after girls once they tell them to stop. They'll just assume that the girl's playing 'hard to get'. But _never_ , in my life, have I seem a man go after another man after he says stop."

"Okay! Okay! Shut up, Jesus Christ! Whatever, you win, I just don't like the idea of people being gay! Is that so hard to understand?" Alfred snapped at him, growling in a dangerously low tone. Arthur glanced over to him, giving an amused little smirk before nodding and going mute.

"No, not at all. It's just hard to understand with some phony bible claim."

Alfred seemed to firstly be annoyed by this statement, shoulders tensing as he sent a venomous glare. Then he calmed down, shoulder's slacking like he'd more or less understood Arthur's reasoning. The Briton didn't want bullshit reasons. Alfred looked down to the now empty popcorn bowl, rising to his feet with a little sigh. He headed into the kitchen without a word, grabbing one of the microwavable bags. He waited for the kernels to start screaming in agony as their insides imploded, busying himself by looking at the pictures on the fridge. Arthur's father had both he and his mother almost completely fooled that he was a good parent. The pictures were obviously of Arthur and his siblings, laughing, happy, innocent. He frowned slightly, looking away from them.

His phone startled him out of his stupor, a very loud version of 'Bringing Sexy Back' sounding in the kitchen. Normally it was funny around his friends, and girls would just giggle and whisper, 'yes you are'. But he was very flustered to hear Arthur full out having a laughing attack, which was both very annoying... But very good to hear he _could_ laugh. Picking up his phone, he held it to his ear. "Hey, mom... Yeah no, he's good... I'm waiting here... Yes, I do, mom the guys an asshole I need to-... It is my business... No I'm not alone, Arthur's here... Mom, no... Mom, not fair! It's not his type of party anyways... Because I _know_ this kind of thing, he wouldn't enjoy it-"

"I _love_ parties!" He heard Arthur shout in a sarcastic tone from the other room, although his very dense mother didn't pick up on the sarcastic part.

"Mom, no... C'mon, this isn't fair, I've been waiting to go for months, he'll drag me down... Mooooom, not cool... Seriously... Pick some other kind of punishment... Fine, whatever... Yeah, you too, bye." Alfred hung up his phone with an irritable sigh, hearing Arthur still chuckling from the other room. "Goddammit Arthur! Not funny, this parties not your type of thing. Everyone that likes to beat the shit out of you'll be there!"

"Will there be Westside students there too?" Came a voice from the other room.

"Well, yeah, but why?"

"All of the guys there seem to like my ass. I'll chill with them."

"And you know _how_? Maybe you're just making assumptions, being an arrogant gay."

"Hm, yes, maybe I am. Maybe when one walked up to me, grabbed my ass, and said, 'Nice ass, wanna fuck sometime?' is just me making an assumption half of that school is gay."

"Ewwww, why'd you tell me that?"

"Thought you should know."

"You're a sarcastic little shit, you know that?"

Arthur laughed quietly, rising up to his feet slowly and walking into the kitchen so he wouldn't have to raise his voice. "So I've been told... Where's the party, then?"

"Who in the world says you're going?"

"Your mum. Come on, I'll stay out of your way. It's a Friday night and I want to get out of the house." Well, it was already nearing nine thirty at this point, but judging highschoolers, the party had just begun.

"You're hurt, you've been stumbling around like you're half dead." Alfred frowned, not wanting to have to tote Arthur around. Even more so, he didn't want to feel responsible for him. Because now he did, even if it was a little. He'd seen how Arthur lived, how he _never_ got a break from being called worthless. And now he almost couldn't bring himself to do it. In reality, the Brit seemed like a decent enough guy... He just liked to broadcast about being gay a bit more than Alfred was comfortable with.

"I'm fine, you've done worse yourself and not cared."

Oh, ouch. Alfred frowned, turning his head away with a little scowl, going to fetch his popcorn from the microwave. Usually the buttery aroma of freshly popped popcorn got him happy, but Arthur'd spoiled it. He frowned, saying nothing and avoiding looking at Arthur all together. He wanted to yell at the Brit, oddly enough. But he couldn't because Arthur was one hundred percent correct. He _had_ done worse.

"Fine, fine, we're leaving in half an hour... Go get dressed, and not all in black. You'll stick out like a sore thumb." Alfred said finally. Arthur didn't bother to argue, heading out of the kitchen and slowly making his way up the steps. He didn't feel great, but after taking two advil once he got to his room, he knew the pain would disappear soon enough. He changed out of his current clothing, throwing on a pair of blue jeans (hey, not black at least) and a My Chemical Romance band shirt on, black. He walked back down, not really expecting much commentary. But oh, Alfred frowned and shook his head.

"In case you didn't get the memo, this is the kind of party where people, including I, intend on getting laid. Not a 'chill' party." Alfred sighed and took his bowl of popcorn up to Arthur's room, the other following after him with a frown.

"I don't intend on getting laid, I don't see why it matters what I wear."

"Ugh... Stop arguing, listen to me! Just... Trust me on this, I know what I'm doing."

Arthur chuckled, seeing how frustrated the other was getting by something as trivial as clothing. "Fine, fine, choose an outfit for me, _mum_." He motioned to his closet with a jerk of the head. Arthur didn't feel great, no part of his body did. But he wouldn't turn down a chance to party, because it rarely ever came up. Last time he'd partied had been the time Gilbert had gotten him in one all those years ago.

Alfred walked into Arthur's small, cramped closet, looking amongst the sea of black. He seemed to try to grab things, but dropped them when realizing they were too baggy or too 'emo' looking, as he mumbled every few moments as he tossed down some band shirts. Finally though, he came out with a pair of bight red skinny ( _painfully_ skinny) jeans and (thank god) black tank-top like band shirt, with 'Green Day' written in bright red stenciling.

"Here, wear this." Alfred said, tossing it over. "You've gotta learn to like.. _pop_ at these parties. Get people's attention."

Arthur looked at the pants, frowning. "God, I didn't even realized I owned such a color any more... Can't I wear black ones?" Arthur said in an almost whiny tone.

"No! Pop, _pop_ , ya hear me? Black doesn't make you pop, red makes you pop." Alfred said matter-o-factly. Arthur huffed, seeming to give up. He unbuttoned his current jeans, slipping them down (showing completely awesome British flag briefs) before he heard Alfred yelp. "Woah dude, goddamn, let me get out of the room!" He said loudly, taking his eyes off of the other quickly. Arthur scoffed.

"Oh please, it's no different than changing in the gym locker room. What, scared my body's gonna turn you _gay_?" Arthur emphasized the last word in a very sarcastic voice, tossing the blue jeans in the hamper and grabbing the red ones, having a bit of difficulty pulling the clingy material up all the way. It fit his hips well still, at least, but it left no mercy for clinging onto his bum and thighs. He sighed, pulling off his shirt and reaching for the band shirt, pulling it on over his head. Thankfully it seemed the few bruises he had on his stomach were lingering, almost not there at all.

"Oh shut your mouth, Kirkland, I just don't like seeing dudes change. That's _gay_."

"Yes, very good Jones, very good deduction."

Alfred huffed, walking back and tossing Arthur a pair of bright red Doc Martin's for shoes, the Brit making more commentary about 'not owning such colors'. "Fuck off man... Put these on and let's go." Arthur slid on the shoes without complaint, grabbing a bottle of concealer and eyeliner from his desktop, heading in the direction of the bathroom. Alfred noticed this, grabbing him by the back of his shirt, "Lose the makeup, Kirkland, you look fine without it."

Arthur frowned slightly at him, raising a thick eyebrow as if to ask, 'are you shitting me?' before he set the items back down on his desk and nodded. "Whatever." He simply wouldn't accept the fact Alfred had come close to complimenting him. Out the front door they walked, the affect of the advil he'd earlier taken had finally kicked in, making everything feel almost numb. Usually at least something in his body hurt, and since it was hard to come by any type of pills he didn't often take any unless he was absolutely dying. But tonight seemed reason enough to. Alfred hopped in the Jeep parked in front, Arthur getting in the passengers side. He didn't bother to tell Alfred just how _filthy_ his car was, with old McDonalds wrappers in the floorboards and the very tacky Christmas tree air freshener hanging from the middle mirror.

Alfred began to drive, long past dark out at this point. Arthur was about to point out Alfred wasn't dressed up at all for the event, before realizing he was. He hadn't really noticed it when he'd been almost blinded with pain earlier, but the American was in white skinny jeans (not quite the soul-suckingly tight ones Arthur wore) and a button-up American flag shirt, which had been 'accidentally' halfway buttoned up, showing off the tan skin that rested on his collarbone, which to anyone-man or woman- looked perfectly bitable. Arthur looked back out his own window, sighing. The lights passed in a blur, and he could of sworn he saw his dads car passing as they drove. But that wasn't likely, the man never got home before four. Plus, he wouldn't care if Arthur wasn't there, if he returned earlier than four in the morning, then he found some girl who would roll around in the sheets with. And boy, Arthur _never_ wanted to walk in on that again.

What seemed like minutes later they were pulling up to a house that made Arthur's jaw drop. It was pretty much the picture perfect vision of 'that rich-ass kid who's parents lent them a mansion for a party' kind of thing. There were spotlights shining up on four stories of marble pillars, the yard neatly trimmed down to the last hair of grass. The walls were paved smoothly with a creme color. Arthur found himself staring for a moment, before he heard Alfred tapping on the passenger side window. "Stop gawking, come on in."

Arthur did as he was told without waiting, hopping out of the car and closing the door, following Alfred in. When the American had said 'party' earlier, he imagined twenty or so people in a basement, sharing a few lukewarm beers they'd stolen from their parents. But oh no, half the school had to be there. Well, the popular half anyways. Inside was even more grand, the front room had a whole buffet with nothing but alcohol. Like... How? How had they never been busted for that? Arthur'd followed his dad into a few bars once, and even they didn't have that quantity. "Heh... Pretty cool, am I right?"

"Yes... Very..." Arthur suddenly felt very small. Not like the 'cornered and being beaten' kind of small. But like the 'insignificant human being' kind of small. "It's really nea-... Well fuck you too." Arthur looked over to see Alfred had disappeared, already chatting up his current girlfriend. Arthur looked around, not seeing a single face, not one that he wanted to talk to at least. Arthur wandered over to a corner after a while, regretting going to the party for the next ten minutes. He saw flashes of Alfred, usually making out with the girl of talking to other people.

"Heyyyy, it's cuteee asssss boyyy," Came a very drawn out voice from his left suddenly, feeling an arm be slung around his arm instantly. Arthur almost stumbled, feeling pain managing to make its way through his body despite the pain medicine. He turned to look at who it was, having to really analyze his face.

"Oh, hey... You're the Westside boy, the one that..."

"Commented your ass a few weeks ago, yeah, that was me."

"Wow, didn't think you'd remember me. It was all of a two second meeting."

"I never forget a pretty face."

Arthur, for some reason, smiled. He usually hated other people flirting with him, regardless of gender. But it felt nice for someone to compliment him once, someone that thought he was somewhat attractive. "Dayum, your ass looks even better in these pants!" The teen was peeking behind the Briton, grinning at what he saw. Arthur mentally thanked Alfred, chuckling lowly.

"Why thanks, love. You know, I don't believe I ever got your name."

"Matthias."

"Arthur."

"It's nice to officially meet you Arthur, mind if I hang out with you? No one else here likes to hang out with me. They think hanging out with that 'gay emo' kid isn't socially acceptable."

Arthur felt a connection immediately, and he nodded with a little excited smile. "I know! Bloody 'ell, it's not emo, it's-"

" _Punk_!" They both exclaimed at the same time with a joyful smile, laughing.

"Oh God, someone understands!" The blue eyed boy said happily, his spiked up hair bouncing slightly as he jumped slightly from excitement. "Well, in honor of one human being understanding me, may I go get you a drink, Arthur?"

Oh fucking _finally_ , a teen who knew how to treat someone. Arthur nodded almost immediately, wandering with the other over out of the crowd a bit. "That would be lovely, thanks. Nothing too strong..."

"Nooo man, you need to be on this level with meee, everything's a blur." Matthias exclaimed with a laugh, wandering off in the crowd of dancing bodies. People were pressed together, some just dancing, some grinding. He leaned up against a wall, seeing a few of the jocks from his school. Every time his eyes locked with a new one, they seemed to have this weird... _acceptance._ Like, 'okay, you got someone cool to bring you in. We'll let you go for now.' kind of thing. He sighed in relief, looking as the Nordic wandered back over with a small glass filled with a light brown liquid.

"Dare I ask what it is?"

"A mix of vodka, ouzo, arak, and two or three other alcohols... I dunno man, one shot get's ya completely stoned."

Arthur took the glass, looking down at it doubtfully. He'd been tipsy a few times, but since his dad was such a drunken bastard... He was almost scared he'd turn into some horrendous beast if he got drunk. However, Matthias was standing there like a puppy, a rather joyous expression on his face as he waited. With a sigh, Arthur tilted his head back and downed it, making a rather disgusted face as he felt it burn down his throat. "Ugh! Ew, god g-gross!" He coughed, leaning over slightly. He felt a hand gently patting his back, and heard a joyful laugh.

"I know man, I know, it's disgusting. But none of the alcohol here's quality, so it's the best way to get the great affects without downing that shit for more than a second." Matthias said, rubbing his back. Arthur slowly straightened up, making another face as he felt the burn disappear. As soon as the burn died away though, he felt his brain become fuzzy. Thoughts such as, ' _I probably shouldn't sleep with a guy I just met,'_ changed to, ' _I hope he's got a condom on him_ ,' as he looked up to Matthias, grinning loosely. "Good shit, right?" The taller of the two asked happily.

"Oh _yeah..._ This is great... What should we go do now?" Arthur looked up to the other, setting down the glass somewhere. Who knew where~? Who cared~? He hadn't let himself smile, be happy, have _fun_ in three years, and tonight- he was sure as hell going to have the time of his life. He looked across the room, seeing Alfred. Mh... ' _When Alfred's not being a total dickhead... He's kinda.. hot... Hehe, wonder if he'd be a little less straight for the night~?'_ Arthur thought to himself, feeling Matthias take his hand and guide him out of the main room.

"There's lots of games, ya know, spin the bottle, seven minutes in heaven... You know, all of the ones that can get people laid without looking like whores. Or, there's a pool in the back." Matthias said, looking in each room as they passed them.

"Mh... It's early, how about a swim first?"

"You bring swim trunks?"

"I'm wearing underwear."

"Ah damn, thought ya woulda left those as home... Skinny-dipping's hot."

Arthur grinned like a goofball, having completely lost any shred of sobriety. "Mh, not in front of half a hundred people... Maybe later for you, though, love~"

Matthias grinned, whistling. "Ooooh goodie! Well, swimming it is. Everyone's swimming in under-shit, so don't worry 'bout it." The both of them walked out two held open tall, glass doors and out into the back. Although it was chilly out, there were heaters pumping out hot air, and it kept it mildly warm, not to mention Arthur didn't doubt the pool was heated. He looked around to all of the teens, the girls in bra's and their underwear, the braver ones (or the ones that didn't intend to swim) wearing thongs. He looked away, not finding it fitting to his tastes. They were already revealing _enough_ skin, in his opinion. Why show even more? Looking over to Matthias, he saw the teen had already pulled off of his shirt and was unbuttoning his pants. Arthur, had he been the tiniest bit sober, would of admired how absolutely gorgeous his body was. But all he could focus on was the water.

Pulling off his own shirt, he ignored the few remaining bruises, glad it was dark out to distract from those. He had to really struggle to get off the tight red skinny jeans, folding them up and leaving them next to the Nordic's. "Hey, you've got... I didn't want to ask about your head, but are you alright?" Matthias questioned suddenly, nose scrunching up as he squinted his eyes, leaning in a bit to look at the assorted bruises.

"Oh, yeah..." Arthur strained to think of a legible reason, head swimming in a land of magical unicorns at this point. "Don'ttt worry about it~ I just fell down the stairs, hit pretty much every damn step on the way down." Anyone from his school knew that was a lie, but at least Matthias wouldn't.

"Oh, okay. I know the guy throwing this party, so let me know if you need any kind of medicine. I can get some from him."

Arthur nodded with a half smile, before walking over to the pool and slipping in. It wasn't a five year olds party so he knew he couldn't cannon ball in, but he wished he could of. A little sigh left his lips in comfort as he was encased in lukewarm water, feeling the air was slightly cooler than the water. He sunk in further, up to his nose, not wanting to get the bandages on his head wet. Matthias slid in next to him, grinning and going completely under, coming back up, his hair now plastered to his forehead. "Oh god, that feels goooood." Both of them said in unison, giggling like idiots at the perfect timing. In the back of his mind, Arthur was glad he didn't feel anger like his father did. He just felt... loopy, like he'd spill all of his secrets if somebody asked.

"Wanna go over to the hot tub? No one else is in there," Matthias said after a moment of relaxing, looking over to the small tub connected to the end of the pool. Arthur's feet landed on the ground of the shallow end after a moment, looking over. They'd have to cross through the deep end to get there... It wasn't to say that Arthur couldn't swim, but he hadn't in years, and the thought of going over eight feet of danger didn't appeal to him.

"Hm.. Sure, let's." He replied, staying close to the side as he began to swim idly, hoping Matthias would just assume he was moving slow because of the alcohol or the serenity, not because he really hated deep water. After a few minutes of weaving through the water not-so-gracefully, Arthur pulled himself into the hot tub, immediately sinking in with a content sigh. The wind was cold on his shoulders, but it only made it all the much better as he sunk further in. Matthias moved to take a seat next to the Brit, in a not-so-innocent way. He wrapped his arm around the Brit's shoulders, looking out around all of the people.

Arthur wasn't used to all of the sweet attention, the fact he felt Matthias's lips pressed against his cheek in a moment, then his jawline, then down his throat slowly was a bit unsettling. Not that he didn't enjoy it, quite the contrary, but he hadn't felt that since he'd been with Gilbert for those few weeks. And even then, the Prussian was never one for being very gentle, he preferred making out heavily on a grassy bank. Arthur didn't say anything about the lips, instead tilting his head to the side, letting him continue. Most people would of jumped back and shouted, 'I don't know you that well!' or something of the like, but Arthur didn't really care. No one knew him, and if a cute Nordic man wanted to make out and leave early, why the hell not?

"Mh... Usually when I do this people have something to say about it..." Matthias whispered against his collarbone, licking there gently before kissing back up to his ear, sucking on the lobe of it.

"What's there to say? Thanks?" Arthur replied in a quiet but teasing tone, earning a little laugh from the blond.

"I like your hair... I've never had the guts to dye mine a bright color like that..."

"O-oh, thanks..." Arthur felt his cheeks light up as the other continued with the light, teasing motions, never leaving a mark on his skin. He felt a hand on his stomach, rubbing slowly and daring to slide down a bit, almost close to-

"What the holy _fuck_ are you doing, Arthur? What the _holy fuck_?" Alfred, who was magically standing right on the edge of the hot tub, said in a strong tone. Arthur jumped away from the Nordic man, flushing slightly.

"Er... Having funnn?" He cooed slowly, grinning lightly. He was blushing, although it was hard to tell if he was embarrassed, or if it was the strong alcohol. "You said this was a party to get laid at, Alfie, why can't I?"

"Because, it's gross. C'mon, we're going upstairs to play games." Alfred said sternly. Matthias sat back slightly, glancing between the two of them. It was evident that they had a bit of a history, the way they spoke to each other showed it.

"Noooo, I wanna stay here with Matthiassss..." Arthur whined, feeling a hand on his arm. He yelped quietly, shivering at the cold that greeted his body. Alfred flushed slightly at the water clinging to the other, which made the briefs he were wearing even tighter. God, he could see every curve of his bum-...

"Get dried off, you can lay your pretty lil' boyfriend later, since I brought you here you're my responsibility and I need to keep some what of a watch over you." Alfred threw a towel at the Brit, looking away with a little frown. Matthias chuckled lightly, sinking further in the water, looking up to Arthur with a kind smile.

"I'll be here dude, go have some fun~" The Nordic cooed happily, leaning back. Arthur nodded, drying off his legs and having to scrub his briefs to dry them off, slipping on the skinny jeans again, pulling on his shirt and following Alfred as he headed back into the house. He felt like this party gave him a bit of a social status, no one was messing with him, a few girls were even eyeing him. He doubted they knew he was gay.

Up the stairs they walked, down a few halls and into a room. It wasn't particularly big, with carpeted floors and a few _huge_ bean bags that everyone was sitting in. Alfred walked over and plopped down in one, ignoring the couple a few feet away, groaning and grinding, tongues tangled together. It seemed like a completely normal thing. "Er... What's this game?" Arthur asked, watching as Alfred opened a beer and chugged down half of one.

"Pretty much a combination of spin the bottle, truth or dare, and seven minutes in heaven. Sit down, get laid, the dude directing it will be back in a little bit." Alfred, who sounded slightly less sober and a little more relaxed, said. Arthur nodded, taking a seat , leaning against the beanbag Alfred was in. But seriously, that thing was as big as a bed, four people could of sat in it. His eyes wandered around the room, hearing bumping sounds coming from the closet not far away. Two girls, that's right, two girls, were all-out snogging in a corner, a good deal of groping going on. Arthur was a little bit amazed Alfred wasn't even phased, considering the amount of dislike for gays. Arthur looked up as an older teen came back in, probably the host of the place. He looked to be about nineteen, if not in his early twenties.

"Alright, let's lay down the rules since I see some new faces! You don't like your dare, too fucking bad. Either do it, or get out. Not just out of this room, I will personally escort you fifty miles away. Either get with the game or leave now. This is a _party_ , bros, I won't go around gossiping you were dared to do something you didn't like. Comprendo?" Arthur, along with everyone else in the room, nodded. The few kissing couples separated slowly in hopes of an even more lewd dare. Arthur found this particularly exciting, and looked around to everyone in the room. Either this could go badly, like being dared to make out with some girl... Or maybe, _hopefully_ , someone would dare him to do something with Alfred. Now that he thought about it... Alfred wasn't bad looking, and this whole 'watch out for you thing' was kind of adorable. Not to mention he wasn't rough with him, and earlier it seemed he'd come as close to an apology as Arthur would ever get. He supposed it'd be nice to... try to forgive him, or at least make a mutual alliance. It would be _heaven_ if he could get people to stop bullying him in school.

The Englishman looked down to his hand, seeing the bruised skin of his fingers. At least they were out of that god awful splint now, well on their way to healing. Drawing caused them to cramp though, so he steered away from it for a while longer. "Goodie! Let's do a little spin the bottle and get some of you lovebirds together, first... Hey, Liz and Roderich, out of the closet." The man looked over to the doors of the little room, seeing two flustered looking teenagers step out, taking a seat in one of the beanbags. Arthur noted the hickies on each other's necks, chuckling quietly to himself.

And thus the game begun, with more than twenty teens in the room now, spin the bottle got rid of eight of them, having two more intimate pairings 'go to the spare rooms upstairs', whilst the other two settled somewhere in the depths of the room. Spin the bottle ended, replaced by a round of seven minutes in heaven. Arthur found himself holding his breath the one time all of their names went into a hat, although in the end it was two girls names sitting on the opposite sides of the room. One of them, most likely a straighter girl, opposed for a minute then went silent at the threat of leaving. Someone handed her a beer, which she chugged before walking into the closet, the door closing with a soft 'thud' of a back being pressed to it. Wolf whistles sounded around the room, and slowly the man decided the last game, truth or dare. Arthur was especially excited for this one, straightening up and glancing to Alfred, a bit surprised to see he'd downed two more beers in less than ten minutes.

"Fun, fun, well let's see who the next victims are..." It was obvious by the black-headed man's tone of voice he was enjoying himself thoroughly, and he clasped his hands together. His eyes wandered over the crowd of hopeful faces, stopping on Alfred. The American was no longer sober, eyeing one of the bigger-chested girls in the corner of the room. He then looked to Arthur, who was hopefully looking up to the American. Chuckling softly, he spoke. "Hm, your names Alfred, right?" The leader walked over to the American, standing in front of the beanbag. The American looked up, smiling.

"Yeaaaah, that's the name bro!" He replied happily.

"You've got someone eyeing you, how 'bout you let them give you a little _dance_ ~?"

Alfred looked around to all of the girls in the room, most of which had their eyes trained one each other, not Alfred. "Someone was... eyeing...?" Not that he was surprised, people tended to have their eyes on him a lot. The man chuckled and nodded, motioning to Arthur. The American's eyes landed on the Brit for a moment, cheeks lighting up, though it may have just been from all of the beer. "No, no _way_ man, I'm not even-"

"Yeah yeah, no one ever is. Well, you can either get it over with or get out. No one'll tell in here, don't worry man." Alfred knew no one in the room, so he guessed they were from other schools. Still...

Arthur perked up at the mention of him, grinning coyly. The alcohol in his body only got stronger and stronger it seemed, and all he was waiting for was Alfred's reaction. Alfred seemed to look from the door, to Arthur, debating on what to do. After a few moments of debating, he sighed and rolled his eyes, nodding his head. The taller man running the show, who's name was revealed to be Mike, whooted and walked back in the middle of everyone, continuing the show. More people meandered in, sitting down and staying until they got paired and left. Arthur grinned, crawling onto the beanbag and moving to straddle Alfred's lap. The American frowned, fidgeting slightly, resting his hands on the beanbag unsurely. Arthur didn't feel petite like girls did, his body was well filled out, and as much as the blue eyed teen dreaded admitting it, he liked the feeling of the other not being so breakable.

The redhead waited for a minute, looking straight down at Alfred with a drunken grin before beginning to move his hips, _hard_. Alfred let out a little moan in surprise and pleasure as he felt their hips pressed together, inhaling sharply as Arthur began to move his body rhythmically, grinding his arse back against his upper thighs. Alfred felt his cheeks heat up brighter than they should have, not liking the fact that this was... kind of turning him on. If he stopped looking at Arthur and focusing on the fact he was, well.. Arthur, all he could feel was a wonderful pleasure on his genitals. A quiet moan escaped the Brit's lips as he ground with more pressure, speeding up his hips as he imagined how it'd feel if they were naked, how it'd feel if Alfred was actually enjoyed himself. His hands moved to rest on the American's shoulders, eyes having closed a few minutes prior. He focused on moving his hips, on enjoying himself and trying to remember how the hell to give a decent lap dance.

When he opened his eyes though, Alfred _was_ enjoying it. He'd leaned back into the beanbag, head falling back as his eyes closed. His cheeks were flushed a dark color, eyebrows furrowed a bit (whether in pleasure or distaste Arthur wasn't sure). The only thing that sold him was the little moans passing through the other's lips, the way his hips jolted up a bit every so often, and the feeling of his hands moving to rest on Arthur's thighs confirmed it. Arthur rolled his hips again, groaning deeply. There was certainly action going on in the both of their pants, for the Brit's pants only got tighter than originally, and he could feel something pressing back against him.

Alfred was trying not to like it _too_ much, unluckily for him Arthur had a talent for moving his hips. Moaning, he opened his and leaned forward suddenly, smashing his lips into Arthur's. Because why not? He was drunk, so hopelessly drunk at this point, and he didn't care anymore. So maybe he wasn't 100% straight... Was there such a thing as Arthursexual? Was that a sexuality? God, he didn't know, or care. Arthur, even through his drunken haze, was shocked. Alfred tasted like alcohol and some other chick's cherry lipstick, his skin was hot against Arthur's. The Brit leaned in and kissed him back, hearing a few whoots coming from the few remaining people that were playing the game. He closed his eyes tightly, rolling his hips at a steady rate as he crashed their lips together again.

It was no sensual kissing like Matthias had done, rather quick, sloppy, tongue-on-tongue action. Alfred had this 'I don't care if you kiss back or not' kind of thinking to it, feeling their teeth clash. He finally had enough of the lapdance, not able to be as close as he'd like to. Grabbing Arthur by the bum, he flipped them over and pressed the Brit's lithe body against the beanbag, pinning him with his own body. Arthur's legs wrapped around his waist, thankful for the dimmed lights of the room now, hearing most of the other teens leaving the area, although there were still a few couples on other beanbags doing what they were. He ground his hips up against Alfred's, hands burying themselves into the honey blond hair of the other, groaning desperately into his mouth and pressing closer.

Arthur broke apart for air a moment later, panting heavily as he looked up to the American, feeling lips on his neck. Not like Matthias's though, rough, biting lips. He turned his head to the side, suddenly feeling his stomach lurch. ' _Uh oh..._ ' Arthur squirmed slightly, pushing at the other. "A-Al, I think I'm go-gonna be..." He jumped up, nearly stumbling across the room and clinging onto the sides of the trash bin as he threw up, mostly liquid; obviously the alcohol. He coughed dryly for a moment longer, his throat on fire. Arthur slowly walked back over to the beanbag on shaky legs, collapsing on it. Alfred was sitting criss cross, panting as he tried to reason with himself that in no way, had the makeout section with Arthur had been gay.

"Uh, you okay...? Arthur...? Arthur?" Alfred poked the other's shoulder, seeing his eyes close. "Ah, shit." The American sat back with an irritated sigh, a hand moving to run through Arthur's hair slowly, knowing the Brit had gone unconscious. So much for his night of mumbling 'no homo' as he rolled around in the sheets with the punk. Instead, he leaned over to gently pick up the other, surprised at how light he was. He weaved his way through the crowd of people and up the stairs slowly. He thought about driving, but upon realizing that he couldn't read simple words even with his glasses on, he decided it was best not to. The mansion they were in had a whole floor full of rooms, probably meant for servants or maids. Instead he lay Arthur back on one, tossing the blankets on top of him, deliberately trying not to be too gentle or too affectionate. That had been too close to gay. Surely though, he'd just responded because the damn Brit got him horny, right? Deciding on that, he left a glass of water on the bedside table and then walked out, going to solve his little problem between his legs with his girlfriend. Oh god, his _girlfriend_ , what if someone told her about that little mishap!? He shook his head, clearing his throat as he headed back downstairs.

No way, no way in the world he was gay for Arthur Kirkland.


	4. Extended Ice Cream Metaphors and Hurtful Words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are going swimmingly with the two! Alfred and Arthur are getting along better than they had in the past few years, although a sudden car crash brings things to a halt. Not because of the pain inflicted physically, but because of hurt feelings a certain Brit acquires when he realizes he comes in secondhand to Alfred. And then follows some hurtful words that neither can forget.

**Chapter 4**

**Extended Ice Cream Metaphors and Hurtful Words**

Arthur felt consciousness slowly seep back into his body several hours later, the first thing he noticed was the feeling of someone beating on the inside of his skull with a mallet. He groaned softly in pain and rolled over, burying his face in the pillows and staying like that, feeling sunlight gracing his arms and part of his stomach. A hand moved half an inch, realizing he was shirtless. Huh, he must of taken it off sometime through the night. Staying like that for a moment longer, he slowly turned his head to the side and looked around. The sheets were too starch-straight, they smelled too much like vanilla and not enough like smoke. He wasn't at home. What the hell had even happened last night? He blinked a few times, dyed red hair falling in front of his eyes. Making another sound of discomfort, he sat up slowly, pulling the blankets up over his shoulders. He looked around at the surprisingly big and empty room, seeing a closed door and a simple glass of water next to his bed. Reaching out, he pulled it to his lips and downed half of the glass, sitting back with a small sigh a moment later. A party... With Alfred, right, Alfred had taken him to a party per his request. And he'd met up with a guy named Matthias, and, and... Nothing. All he could remember was being giddy, not in pain for once.

Hopping out of his bed, he heard people sluggishly walking around outside his room, the jingling of car keys evident as people pulled them from their pockets. Time to explore a bit, or at least learn if his ride was still around. He left his shirt on the ground though, feeling too hot to bother putting it back on. God, his head. What a headache. He placed a hand on his temple, feeling bandages there. Oh, yeah, that was probably contributing to it hurting. He pushed the door open with his shoulder, peeking out into the corridors. Now that he was sober, he could take a minute to appreciate the finely painted portraits of older looking people, and all the expensive china that was locked away in cabinets. Although the corridor was narrow the ceilings were high up, giving the place a larger-than-it-was effect. Beginning to walk down the hallways with his mouth hanging open slightly, he ran into someone without even meaning to. He stumbled back slightly, looking ahead to see a brunette. He almost immediately recognized her as the girl his companion had been making out with as soon as they got to the party; Alfred's girlfriend.

"Oh, I'm so so sorry! I didn't see you there!" Elizabeta, as Arthur knew her, squeaked out. She had been one of the girls who fawned over Arthur's British accent, much to his relief she seemed to not mind him.

"It's alright, I'm sorry... Damn hangover, I can't see straight..." Arthur grumbled quietly, rubbing at the side of his head, looking over to the slightly shorter female. She was on the cheerleading team, although _had_ Arthur been straight, she would of been the kind of girl he might consider going out with. She laughed quietly, nodding in agreement.

"Oh _God_ , don't remind me. One person shouldn't down as many beers as I did... And shit, I've got cheerleading practice today..." She stuck her tongue out with a roll of the eyes, sighing. "Anyways, I've got to go think up an excuse for not coming back home last night, so I'll see you around..." Elizabeta skipped down to the end of the hall, the too-short skirt flying up a bit more. She stopped when she neared the stairs, looking at Arthur over the shoulders. Her smile softened a bit, and gave Arthur a look of pity and compassion. That alone confused him, and he wondered why she was looking at him like she knew something he didn't. "Alfred's in that room, go ahead and wake him. He told me he brought you here, so make sure he gets you home safe."

"Thanks..." Arthur's words disappeared as he spoke, seeing as the girl was already gone down the steps. He stood there for a minute, pondering on why he received such a look of empathy. Had he done something stupid whilst drunk last night? Shaking his head at the thought, he pushed open the cracked door and walked in, blushing a fairly deep color at what he saw. Why should he even be surprised, that Alfred was unconscious and naked on the bed? He was lying on his stomach, sheets only covering from his thighs down. Looking away quickly, he walked over and threw the sheets up over the American's body, mostly to keep himself from staring for too long (because damn, what an ass). After covering up the other, he poked his shoulder. "Alfred..." Arthur mumbled softly at first, before giving a harder poke. "Alfred, get up, I need a ride home."

The American stirred slightly, making a soft grumbling noise as he hid his face in the pillows, blankets slipping down to the low of his back. How adorable. Arthur sighed in a bit of frustration, yanking off all of the blankets. _That_ got a reaction from him. Alfred jumped up and grabbed them back, throwing them down over his hips to somewhat hide himself. "Goddammit! One good night of sleep is all I ask fo-... Oh, h-hey, Arthur."

_'Oh sweet heavens what could I have done last night that made even Alfred weirded out?'_ Arthur thought to himself, noticing the American immediately lost his pizzaz. "Top of the morning to you. Listen, I need to get home." Arthur mused impatiently, tapping his foot on the ground as he crossed his arms over his chest. Alfred seemed to be in a bit of a daze, still looking up at Arthur almost questioningly.

"Uh... Yeah, yeah, I'll drive you... Just, let me get my stuff..." Alfred grumbled, staying where he was in the mound of pillows. Arthur nodded, taking that as a cue to leave the room and head back to the one he'd slept in. Pulling on the Green Day sleeveless t-shirt he'd been wearing, he decided to get out of the red skinny jeans as soon as he got home, and double checked around the room to make sure he hadn't forgotten anything. He walked over to the bedside table, seeing a piece of paper on the desk, looking like it'd been ripped from a part of a book. ' _Arthur, hey! I came looking for you after a while last night but couldn't find you until you were already out for the night, and I didn't want to wake you. So here's my number, give me a call sometime! -Matthias (P.S, your ass looked great in those pants)'_ Arthur couldn't help but to laugh as he read it, suddenly bending slightly, _just_ to make sure he wasn't sore. Who knew, being as drunk as he'd been, it was entirely possible he'd gotten laid. But no, he felt normal. He had a headache, but otherwise normal.

He shoved the paper in his back pocket just as Alfred walked in, now clothed and a little more reputable looking. "Okay, let's go. I've got to go drive Liz to practice in a few hours." He said, motioning out the door with a jerk of his head. Arthur nodded mutely, following him down the four flights of stairs and out the front door. In retrospect, he felt guilty for leaving the house a wrecked mess, red solo cups scattered along the floors, not to mention crumpled up napkins and plates. The two of them got in the American's Jeep, beginning to drive silently down the road. Arthur fidgeted slightly, looking down to his hands.

"Um... Did I do anything bad last night? I've been getting some _weird_ looks from people..." Arthur finally piped up, although he avoided eye contact and focused on the wrist bands laced up his arms, twirling one around and feeling the cheap rubber snag at his arm, which hurt slightly.

"I, uh... You don't remember anything from last night?" Alfred mumbled after a moment, perking up a bit. Good, this was good! He wouldn't have to worry about keeping Arthur quiet, he didn't remember a thing! It was like it'd never happened, which it _hadn't_ , Alfred kept telling himself that at least.

"Nope, not really. Think ya kissed someone once in the pool, whazzhisname, Matthias? That's about it, though. You got sick and passed out around one in the morning." Not a whole lie, at least.

"Oh... God, that's why my mouth tastes so bad..." He mumbled, making an 'ew' face by sticking out his tongue and scrunching up his nose. Alfred laughed, taking a turn. From all the trips to Arthur's house with his mum, he'd learned the route well enough. "Well, at least I didn't do anything _too_ bad... Getting drunk's not my forte."

_'Oh, if only he knew...'_ Alfred thought to himself, simply laughing and nodding to show he was paying attention. "Yeah... Well, hey... About yesterday, before the party..." He shifted around in his seat slightly, keeping his eyes trained on the road. "I know you won't admit to your father hurting you, b-"

"He didn't." Arthur replied in an ice cold tone, shooting a warning glare over to him. He would _not_ be thought as as weak.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever... If you need to get out of that house, though... 105 Burberry Street, the white house on the left, go there if you ever need to." Alfred continued to drive, ignoring Arthur's little 'not being hurt' protests. It was obvious, extremely so. Arthur ended his little objections with a huff, crossing his arms over his chest and sulking. He didn't like the concept of anybody thinking he wasn't strong enough to protect himself.

"Oh... Thanks, I s'pose... Won't be needing it, though." The red head replied simply, tugging at the hem of his shirt thoughtlessly.

"Mh hm." The drive back was silent the rest of the way. Not the awkward kind, rather the kind where neither of them had anything to say. Arthur's headache was splitting, and Alfred was doing his best not to think about Arthur. About the way their bodies clicked together and the way he moaned. Everything about him was... different. Not feminine, rather strong and self dependent. It was something Alfred never thought he'd have any interest in. Pulling up in front of Arthur's home in the multi-cultural neighborhood, he stopped the car and killed the engine, looking over to the other. What had he expected? Some confession about how he _did_ remember last night? Alfred wasn't even sure-rather he knew he didn't want to repeat that occurrence ever again. So why was he hoping Arthur got on top of him and continued that dance of his?

"Thanks, for driving me to the party..." Arthur said quietly, unlocking the door and pushing it open with his knee. He hopped out of the car, closing the door. Alfred had unrolled the window slightly, just so they could exchange a last few words.

"Yeah, no problem... Seeya at school." The American rolled up the window and drove off, glancing in the rear view mirror to glance at the Briton as he walked inside. Alfred didn't want to leave the other there at all, not with his father. But he had no choice; for Arthur would not accept his help. Exhaling a frustrated sigh, Alfred sped around the corner, eyes still in the rear view mirror.

His head jerked back to the front as he heard the sound of screeching car horns, gasping loudly as another large, black car was in his lane. Oh wait, he'd wandered into their lane. Whoops. His foot slammed onto his breaks as he tried to turn the car at the same time, wheels grinding against asphalt in a terribly shrill sound as he felt the two cars collide. He was jerked forward, coughing as the seatbelt stopped him, making his body jerk. Glass shattered, he realized with panic it was his windshields as small shards collided with his face and arms, which had rose up to try and protect himself. The airbag flung out and pinned him against the seat, hearing a snap of bone, feeling a sharp pain in his arm. Numerous car horns were going off at this point, but he couldn't see anything, the glass of his glasses shattered and poking all around his eye.

A loud scream elicited from someone, a bloodcurdling sound of terror and pain. Just before he passed out, he realized it was his own.

 

* * *

 

_Monday_

"Yeah, no man, I heard he got in a car crash." Arthur looked up from his locker as the jocks passed him, not willing to admit his eyes roamed over the crowd of preppy idiots for the American. He frowned when he saw none, already out of earshot to hear who had gotten into a car crash. Oh well, didn't matter, anyways. Some idiot had probably gotten a fender bender, or sped too fast when they shouldn't of been. He bit down on his lower lip lightly, sucking on the tongue piercing that wasn't quite comfortable ever. He shoved half of his books into his locker, closing the old chipped piece of metal with a little sigh. Friday night was still a blur to him, although based off of some of the looks he'd gotten from people, he was seriously starting to wonder what he'd done. Then again, if he had done anything, it would of been with Matthias. Arthur didn't know, nor like, anyone else there.

The Brit walked into his first period class, taking a seat on one of the barstools in the Chemistry Honors room. It was a relatively small class, considering the fact it was exceedingly difficult. Arthur ran a hand through his bright red hair, prodding at the bandage he had on his forehead. He'd already seen some of the jocks giving it inquisitive glares, as if saying, 'none of us did that...?'. It was healing slower than he'd hoped, although his dad hadn't talked to him for the rest of the weekend, he sure as hell had enough pain from the deep little cuts to remind himself he was certainly not welcome in that house.

"So that's why Jones isn't here today?" Arthur's eyes shot up from the unfinished homework that lay in front of him, training on the two jocks sitting in front of him. No way in hell...

"Yeah, my guess's he was hungover from that party or something... Anyways, he just broke his arm, as far as I can tell. He texted me this morning so I could let others know." The jock sounded humble, almost proud that the American had entrusted him with the piece of information. Arthur could feel a bit of the color leaving his face and he frowned, looking back down to his work. Alfred and he weren't even good friends, hell, he didn't even know if Alfred considered him a friend at all. He shouldn't worry, shouldn't bother asking, but...

"Um... Is Alfred okay?" Arthur piped up after a moment of listening the two others talk. The two turned around, sneering at him.

"Oh, and why does the faggot want to know? Have a little _crush_ on Jones? God, he's so going to want to kick your ass when he hears that." The taller of the two jocks sneered. Arthur was pretty sure his name started with a D, so he was just going to call him Dick until he had a better name.

"That's none of your fucking concern. I asked if he was alright."

"Why don't you go back to your gay ass fantasies and shut the hell up, freak?"

Arthur opened his mouth, closing it again with an irritated huff. No use in pissing them off, although he had half a dozen insults brewing in his mind for the idiots. He lowered his head, hearing the both of them toss insults at him, along with a few pieces of balled up paper and a pencil. Arthur kept his eyes trained on the half finished homework problem, barely registering the teacher yelled at the two boys for messing around with him. He really disliked school. He _really fucking hated it._ It wasn't that he disliked education, but the asshat's that went there almost made it unbearable.

Arthur couldn't wait to get back to London, and never see America again.

 

* * *

 

Twice more that day Arthur attempted to talk to one of the popular people to figure out the whereabouts and stats of the American who'd taken him to the party three nights ago. Every time he was shut down and ridiculed though, so he finally stopped asking and settled on finding out himself after school. After the last bell of the day rang, Arthur went to his locker and grabbed his things, pulling out his (cracked) iPhone, pulling up google maps. Typing as he walk, he put in the address of the only hospital nearby, hitting the little person that signaled he'd be walking, and waited for it to calculate his route. Two hour's of a walk, some of which was either on the freeway, or on an eery looking back road. He stopped with an irritated huff, looking around, biting down on his tongue. He winced when his tooth hit the lip piercing, quickly moving his teeth away from it. Two hours, was it worth it? It'd be six before he got there, and nine before he got home. Was Alfred even worth it? The man wasn't exactly a big teddy bear towards him...

But he'd looked out for Arthur, taken him to a party, made sure he got home safe and was looked after. So he began to walk again, putting his phone in his pocket as he began to walk. It wasn't too cold out, a bit nippy. Thank god he'd purchased band merch of Green Day, the hoodie he had on was nice and warm. His beat up converse echoed off of the cracked concrete as he made his way slowly but surely, putting in his ear phones and blasting out Mindless Self Indulgence to keep out the sounds of passing cars and yelling teenagers.

What seemed like no time later he was taking a back path that was only ten or so feet away from the highway. It wasn't on the GPS, he had a feeling it was made by people who traveled back and forth frequently. It wasn't legal to walk on the interstate, you see. He went through album after album, since half of them only had five or six songs on them. He certainly wasn't made of money, and in retrospect shouldn't have spent what little he had on music. But to hell with it. He could see a large billboard up ahead, reading 'ER wait: 10 minutes'. The number was on a screen, changing every few minutes. Arthur realized it was for the hospital, grinning when he realized how close he was. Picking up his speed, he enjoyed the beaten-in dirt path, the few wildflowers blooming on the sides. He'd once gotten dangerously close to a snake in the path, and had done a good deal of silent screaming in horror on the fact he'd almost stepped on it.

And finally he was there, walking into the overly sterile waiting room, looking around. It was a nice hospital, with nice looking staff and nice interior designing. 'Nice' was the only word he could think of for it, honestly. He supposed it had to look nice, so many people died here they had to hide the death. Arthur suddenly realized how out of place he looked. A boy dressed in black, compared to white chairs, white walls, and a white floor. Everything was covered in white, and he was not. Damn, even in a hospital he felt very left out. "Oh my lord, sir, are you alright?" Arthur turned around to hear a young nurses voice, raising an eyebrow. He wasn't hurt, was he? The Brit must of made a confused look, because she pointed to the bandages on his forehead, and he made a little 'ah' sound in realization.

"I'm fine, thank you. Actually, I was coming to see a patient... Alfred F. Jones?" The Brit said in a somewhat hesitant tone, glancing around to make sure no jocks were around. They'd make a laughing stock out of him for sure, if they realized he'd walked all this way. 'The fag that has a thing for Alfred', he could see it now, the rest of his high school career. And worse, Alfred'd hate him for it.

"Oh, the young man that got in a car accident? Yes, of course. Are you a relative of his?" She questioned, turning around and beginning to walk, leaving Arthur to follow behind quickly.

"Well... A, a friend..." Arthur phrased his words carefully. Was he a friend, did Alfred consider him that?

"I see! That's good, he seems like he'd be the popular sort and all, but no one's come to visit him, spare a cousin of his, and he works here! Do you know Matthew? I doubt you do, unless you've come here to see him. Mattie's a doctor here, so he's the one that helped out Al." Arthur was a bit taken aback that no one had come to seen the American, spare a cousin that already worked here, so it'd be rude not to drop in.

"Oh... No, I don't know him. He sounds very nice, though." Arthur remarked kindly to the short-haired brunette woman, hopping up the stairs after her.

"He is! Oh, and by the way, Mr..."

"Kirkland, Arthur Kirkland,"

"Mr. Kirkland, I'd advise letting someone look at that wound on your head, if you haven't already. Any head injury, no matter how small, can cause a lot more damage than you'd think." Arthur raised a hand up to touch the bandage, nodding. He doubted he would, because it was quite obviously glass wounds, but maybe if he could find someone who wouldn't ask questions... Finally they were stopped in front of a third floor room, and the woman scurried off when the pager on her waist beeped. Arthur stood in front of the closed door for quite a while, ignoring the stares he got by passing people. He didn't have any set expression, he was blank. What if there was someone from school in there that saw him? What if Alfred didn't want to see him? Why the holy fuck was he worrying so much over one man? Clearing his throat, he knocked twice and didn't bother waiting for an answer before walking in, eyes zooming up to look at the other.

There seemed to be a moment where both of them were equally surprised to see each other, emerald locked onto sapphire. And even though Arthur had known he was about to walk into his room, he seemed to be the more startled one. Alfred didn't look too great, put in the night-gown that inevitably made everyone look more sickly than they really were. The IV that was attached to his forearm didn't help, not to mention the few little bandaid-like bandages scattered around his forehead and cheeks. Nonetheless, Arthur saw a wide smile slip onto the other's lips, and he immediately knew it was a good choice to come. "Hey!" Alfred proclaimed warmly, using one elbow to prop himself in an upright position, the other in a cast.

Arthur didn't know why he was so shell shocked, he knew he'd expected to see the other injured from a car crash. But all the little details, the cuts and the slight tint of a forming bruise around the left side of his lower lip, the fact it seemed to be a struggle to sit upright, made it a whole more interesting. " 'Ello, Alfred," He remarked after a moment, clearing his throat and walking in, closing the door behind him. He felt even more foreign now, he felt like he stuck out like a sore thumb. He even felt like his hair, which usually to him felt more like a muted crimson or red velvet color, was some bright, clown red shade. But Alfred didn't seem to mind, oddly enough, he seemed overjoyed somebody had shown up.

"Dude, is it good to see someone! Like, goddamn, everyone's been 'busy with school' or 'getting laid', like, gee thanks, I've been sitting on my ass all day and watching retarded reruns of the Simpsons!" Alfred said in his normal, quite loud tone. He wasn't wearing his glasses, Arthur noted, which made him look even more childish and vulnerable. "Speaking of which, what the hell took you so long to get here! You don't have a girlfriend to lay!"

"Oh, I uh, I walked." Arthur said simply with a little shrug.

"You what?"

"I walked. You know, along that old path near the highway." Arthur made a little 'walking' symbol with his two fingers, slowly moving to take a seat in an empty reclining chair.

"I heard you the first time, but shit man, that must of taken hours!" Alfred retorted with a confused frown, not seeming to understand why Arthur put in the effort.

"Nah, not really. Everyone I asked about you today just told me to fuck off, so I s'posed I had to come down here to get answers myself, and I don't have a car, so I walked. It wasn't too bad, it feels good outside today." Arthur mused simply in reply, hoping he didn't sound too... weird.

"You asked about me~? Aw, was Artie worried~?" This seemed to be a playful, innocent question to which Arthur answered 'no' to simply. He had worried though, and he had asked. He kept telling himself that 'Alfred didn't matter' and it was 'just because he brought him to a party', he refused to elaborate on it further.

"I was not, I heard you got in a car crash, everyone was curious."

"But only you showed up," Alfred remarked dryly, laying his head back on the pillow, propping the bed up with a small remote so he could see the other. Arthur had no doubt he was drained of energy, with all those cuts he must of lost a decent amount of blood.

"I'm sure other's will, detention's held today, remember, all of your delinquent friends are held in there for god knows what." Arthur reminded him, hearing the other begin to argue, but then shrug and nod. The American knew his friends were not the smartest people. "So anyways, when are they letting you out of here?" Arthur questioned, wanting to change the subject off of his worry as soon as he could. Alfred seemed to forget about the current subject, and smiled.

"They should of let me out today, but my older cousin, Matthew, works here. And boy, what a pain in the ass! He's being all overprotective and shit and told me I gotta stay in here until Wednesday... Something about 'possible internal bleeding', but that's bullshit. I feel completely fine."

"You look like something ate you and shat you out, Alfred, you know that right?" Arthur remarked before the other could speak again, chuckling to himself. The American rolled his eyes, the both of them falling silent for a moment. Arthur didn't really want to leave yet, though, he'd just arrived after all. "Say, why isn't your mother here?" He questioned suddenly, glancing around as if he'd see Cynthia.

"Oh, she's on her way. My mum has to travel a lot for her job. She'd just got on a plane to go to China a few hours before I got in the crash, so she didn't turn her phone on 'till she'd landed. Since it's near the holidays and all, she couldn't get an immediate flight back. She'll hop on a plane tomorrow night, get back here in two days time." Alfred explained, his hand pressing a button to turn down the sounds on the tv, where The Simpsons was blaring a bit too loudly for both of their likings.

"Cool," Was all Arthur could think to say in reply, looking out the window to hide how awkward he could be. Was it possible it had been a mistake to come and see him after all? He wondered if the American even wanted to be around him. He did seem rather tired, after all. Arthur directed his gaze out the window, eyes dazed over as he followed the movement of the people walking around, happy, free. How it must of felt to not have to worry about anything… To not have to be scared of getting beaten for who he liked.

"Anyways… You remember nothing from that party, nothing at all?" Alfred cut through the stiff silence by asking a seemingly innocent question, although behind his innocence was a bit of worry. Or, a lot of worry. Although Alfred seemed calm and unsuspecting, he worried there was something he knew. The Englishman looked over to the teen in the hospital bed, shaking his head with a little laugh.

"Heavens, Alfred, that's the second time you've brought it up. If I did something that bad, I'm not sure I want to remember." He said, still smiling faintly as his eyes scanned over him again. It was hard to look past all of the injuries, but ultimately, Alfred was still as handsome as he had been forever… Or, you know, attractive… _'Alfred would personally beat the living shit out of me if he had even an indication I thought he was attractive.'_ Arthur thought to himself sourly, smile disappearing a bit.

"Nah, nah, it's just a shame. You seemed to be having fun, it would of been a good memory to have." _'Yeah, you'd love to remember hardcore sucking out my soul… With nice lips…'_ Alfred thought to himself, trying not to frown, although it was already all over his face. He'd had plenty time to lay here and think about it, he wished Arthur did remember… It would be better, so he could, well… Express what he felt? It certainly wasn't love, more like a mixing pot of confusion, anger, disgust, and lust. Most certainly lust. He couldn't seem to keep his eyes off of Arthur ever since he'd walked in. Sure, Alfred enjoyed how petite girls felt, the high-pitched pleasured sounds they made… But Arthur, who was rough with the way he moved and his moans were deep… It had a different kind of level of being robustly hot. Kind of like that type of ice cream that started off really, _really_ gross. But after a few more bites you thought about it all the time? (Chocolate banana, anyone?). Yeah, Arthur was _that_ to him. Alfred looked up suddenly, words seeming to spill from his lips."Oh, hey… I mean, you did do one thing kinda crazy out there-"

"Alfred~! Oh my god, Alfie, are you okay!?" The American, (who hadn't realized his cheeks were a bit red) looked over to see Elizabeta, standing in the entrance of the door. She was in a cheerleading outfit, which meant practically nothing. Arthur could pinpoint the second Alfred's interest in him went to zero, as the other sized her up.

"Liz! Hey, yeah, I'm fine! No harm he-Oof!" Alfred was suddenly being hugged tightly by the sweet milk chocolate colored hair, and although Arthur knew he should be happy she'd showed up, he couldn't help but be a bit envious. Why did _she_ get to be hugged and kissed on the forehead? The more important question to him though, why did he care? Alfred was some jackass who'd shoved his face into the gravel for the past four years. It wasn't like a month of kindness made up for it. Or at least, he kept telling himself that. His resolve was weakening on that…

"I was so _worried_ I heard one of your friends talking about it and someone spread the rumor you were in a coma then someone said you were dead and then, and then, oh my god…" She had slipped up onto the cot beside the other, curling up to his side as she rested her head on his shoulder. Arthur sighed, slowly rising up to his feet.

"Well, I suppose it's time I go…" The dyed red-head mumbled, zipping up his coat and plugging in his ear phones, although he didn't turn on the music. A glance was thrown to the two, only to see they were so engrossed in each other, hugging, kissing, they didn't notice Arthur. ' _Invisible again_ ', Arthur thought without any particular vigor of malice, sighing dramatically once more. He even deliberately made noise when he did so, he made the chair feet scratch on the floor. He made a motherfucking _scene_ about leaving, and Alfred didn't notice.

Because to Alfred, although Arthur was the Chocolate Banana ice cream, his girlfriend was the vanilla with chocolate, sprinkles, and every other topping out there. Sure, the punk was enjoyable, but she was picture perfect. And to the best of Arthur's knowledge, that's all Alfred wanted. 'Shallow asshole.'

 

* * *

 

It took a few hours of sulking once he got home to stop thinking about Alfred. Of course, pardon the two hour walk home in colder-than-before weather and the fact the jocks passed by in a car and threw a huge-ass book at him, which just ended hitting him on the leg; which fucking _hurt_. "I walk two mother fucking hours to talk to the dumbass…" Was he being selfish? Yeah, he knew it. But he'd walked all that damn way only to be completely ignored when his eye-candy girlfriend flounced in...

Now it was Wednesday, two days after he'd gone to see the American. Arthur had all but forgotten about the fact the honey blond was being let out that day until he was walking out of his last class of the day, and heard a laugh. Alfred's laugh, which in despite his anger for the other, made him feel a bit better. "Arthur! Hey, Arthur!" Despite the calls of his name, the Englishman turned around and began to walk down the hall, away from the cheery tone. Dumbass American, he was around his friends! True, Alfred seemed to have scared them off that day on the roof, because all he'd gotten were little shoves into lockers and name calling. Still, he didn't think he could get away with straight up walking over to Arthur, did he? "Eyyy, Arthur! Come on man, wait!" Suddenly there was a hand on the back of his shirt, yanking him backwards. But instead of being thrown on the floor he was stopped by a certain American's shoulder, and he was met with a happy smile. "You deaf dude? And hey, what the hell? You walked right out of the hospital! You didn't even say bye!" Once making sure Arthur wasn't going to topple over, Alfred took a step back.

"I did say goodbye, you were too busy making out with your girlfriend." Arthur replied in a colder tone than he meant to. There was an obviously flash of a bit of a 'whoops' expression on the others features.

"Come on man, ya could of been louder! And I wasn't makin' out with her, I was just happy to see 'er!" Arthur realized Alfred knew he'd managed to tick off the other, and that he was treading on light grounds.

"Your lips looked pretty connected to me… It doesn't matter, anyways. How's your arm? Or, how's your injuries, considering you still look like someone tossed you in a wood chipper."

"You're pretty snarky, you know that Kirkland?" Arthur rolled his eyes. It was weird, kind of like that drug the doctor gave him once when he'd been over in England, with his mom. He'd fallen and hurt his wrist, and they'd given him some sort of laughing gas that made him feel all tingly and happy inside. That was how Alfred made him feel, which honestly pissed Arthur off like there was no tomorrow.

"I never had a clue!" Arthur responded sarcastically, although he realized Alfred had zoned out completely. The American was still looking at him, eyes transfigured on his face. "Um… Earth to Jones, anyone in there?" Arthur knocked on the other's head with his good hand, the faint smile on his features disappearing. Alfred snapped out of it then, blinking for a moment before nodding with a grin.

"Yeah, sorry, I've got a shit ton of makeup work to do." Alfred was mentally cursing himself at the moment, digging his nails into the palm of his hand to keep himself from saying anything out loud. ' _It's totally not gay to think he has a cute smile, right? Nah, just a friendly thing!'_ He decided mentally. "Well anyways, I'm gonna go talk with Lizzie… Hey, you've got my number, right?"

"Yes, I do, I don't see why that's important, though." Arthur sucked on the round metal ball piercing on his tongue thoughtfully, tilting his head as he looked up to him with a little frown. He was in major turmoil, he kept being happy around Alfred, and that was a problem. ' _For god's sakes Arthur, he beat you to a pulp for four years. You can't go around watching his ass just because he apologized once and brought you to a party.'_

"Good. Call me if your dad bothers yo-"

" _Alfred_." Arthur snapped at him suddenly, thick eyebrows scrunching together. "I'm not a baby, I'm fine, fuck off and stop saying that!" His voice raised a bit, taking a step back as he contemplated striking out. He knew he was being irrational, but he hated Alfred thinking he couldn't take care of himself, he hated others looking down on him and thinking he was helpless. Plus, the American was daring to say this in the middle of school! Alfred seemed surprised and angry at once as the other snapped, and he turned around.

"Fine, fine, don't call for my help next time you're in deep shit!" Alfred replied, his voice rising a bit in frustration, although he hadn't yet attracted any attention.

"I bloody won't. Don't come to my house to 'take back your moms blanket' anymore, either!" Arthur felt a hand in the front of his shirt, balling up and yanking him forward. He immediately flinched away, excepting a fist. But he quickly realized the American still had a cast on, his emerald eyes slowly opening again as he looked over to him. "What's a matter doll, car got your arm?" That was the very moment the sense of friendliness snapped in the air between them. Arthur felt like they were old enemies again, like none of the past few weeks had even happened.

"Shut up. Shut the fuck up. I don't know why I bothered to look out for you, all you are is a whiny fag. Forget me helping you any in the future." Arthur was surprisingly hurt by Alfred's words, he'd let his guard down while around him so without the barrier to separate him from people's words, what Alfred said hit home.

" _Screw_ you Jones, go make someone else your pity project." Arthur reached out and shoved him away, stumbling out of his grasp and taking a few steps back. Those words had come out of nowhere, but they made perfect sense once they had. Alfred was being nice out of pity, taking him to parties out of pity, god knew what for. Probably because he thought he was weak. And if Arthur had not made it painfully clear already, he _despised_ being called weak.

"You weren't my fucking pity proj- You know what, fine, go make out with gay-ass Matthias; he was _all over you_ at that party. Itching to get in your fucking pants. _Faggot_."

Arthur didn't even realize there was a crowd around them until everyone laughed at that, and loudly. He suddenly felt five times smaller than Alfred, who had the side of the crowd surrounding him. The red-head threw a glance over his shoulder, looking to all the faces. Inhumane, twisted and warped at the hope of seeing a fight. How could human beings be this terrible? How could they want to watch someone be hurt mentally and physically? Arthur looked back over to the American, gritting his teeth and balling up his fists despite his injured fingers complaints. "At least I'm not a pompous asshole with a god complex."

"Oh, _oh_ , cute, Kirkland, that's real cute. I'd rather have a god complex than have the urge to take it in the ass." More laughter followed that, and Arthur felt someone try to trip him as he took another half step backwards. He ended up kicking that random foot as hard as he could with steel-toed combat boots, hearing an anonymous 'ow!' from the crowd. "I do pity you, you know. You were my pity project, you and your daddy problems. Who wouldn't feel bad for a kid who just _lets_ a guy treat him like a pet? Then again, maybe you enjoy being beaten like that."

Arthur had felt a lot of emotions during this little spar in the halls. Anger, frustration, hurt, (some odd form of lust), you name it. But not humiliated. He wasn't humiliated about enjoying sex, not embarrassed about making out with Matthias. Maybe a little flustered that he'd come close to having sex with someone while drunk, but not humiliated. Well _now,_ he was. That was his one little secret, the one thing he never wanted anyone to know about. And although he never said it aloud, he trusted Alfred with that piece of information, and believed he could come to him if he ever had to. But there it was, out in the open for everyone. And he'd never heard the crowd of people laugh louder than now. Arthur's cheeks lit a deep color of red, not only from embarrassment but from shame, as his mouth opened than closed. No, no no no no, no one was supposed to know about that. Alfred's words hung thickly in the air, people were already whispering. 'Ooh, Arthur's doin' it with daddy…' and 'masochistic faggot'. Arthur was in disbelief, and the horror on his face showed it.

Alfred seemed to realize what he said a moment too late, the anger in his eyes was rubbed away just enough for Arthur to see a bit of regret. But too late to take that back, at least a hundred students had just heard what he'd just said. Arthur didn't have to glance over his shoulder to hear the teasing tone of half the football team, bathing in the new information. Everyone was laughing, throwing pieces of balled up paper and notebooks at the Englishman. They hated him, they honest to god hated him. Although the Englishman had already accepted this, it hurt even more to know that the teens _knew_ he was being abused, hurt, and all they did was mock him for being weak.

"Everyone, everyone, stop! Stop it!" A girls voice cut into the laughter, and even though it was a kind tone shouting, it was drenched in hate and malice. Elizabeta broke through the crowd, giving a glare that cut ice and immediately silenced the entire crowd. Arthur and Alfred both looked over to her, suddenly one of them had received a blow to the cheek as hard as humanly possibly by the cheerleader. But not who you'd think.

Alfred now stood there with a hand held to his cheek in shock and pain, feeling the place where she'd slapped him sting. He frowned, looking down to the absolutely enraged caramel-haired girl. She started several different sentences, each started with things like, "You dick-" and "You fucking asshole-". But she seemed to have too many thoughts to say them all at once. She exhaled through her nose slowly, glancing over to Arthur. "I'd advise you leave, dear, I'll deal with him."

Arthur had no problem with bolting through the crowd, head down. Surprisingly enough, it seemed Liz had startled people enough to the point where they stepped aside and let him through. He got out of the crowd of people, cheeks still burning a dark color in humiliation as he hurried. He could still hear the girl shouting, though.

"You don't do that, you great big bag of dicks, you don't bring something personal out to use as some weapon in a stupid fight!"

"Liz, he was an asshole too-"

"No, no, I don't care! I heard that all, he never exploited your deepest darkest secrets to the world. You don't _do_ that, Alfred. How would you feel if I told the whole world the things you've told me!?"

"I'm _sorry_ , Liz, jesus christ-"

Arthur walked out of earshot of the argument, shouldering open the heavy double doors as he nearly stumbled away from the school. A few people that had left the crowd of people earlier snickered and pointed at him. He ignored it, throwing his hood up over his face to hide the stream of tears that suddenly came bulldozering their way down his cheeks. He pulled the strings on his jacket to keep out any unwanted prying eyes, knuckles white as he gripped the straps of his backpack. Arthur never cried when he was sad, never. He cried when he was frustrated and angry, which he certainly was now. He felt five times smaller than the rest of the world, now everyone would have just another thing to dangle over head, another torture weapon they could beat him with.

"Fucking piece of sh-shit Alfred, dumbass… Bloody twat, I hope he burns in hell…" ' _To think I ever liked him… Even a bit.'_ "I'm not fu-fucking weak, not some p-pity project for him to take on," _'I'm so sure he's going to tell everyone all the gory details,'_ "I don't n-need someone to take care of me…" Arthur sniffled, trying to hold back breaking down just yet. He let out a choked sob, the black eyeliner underneath his eyes smearing as he bit down on his tongue, trying to avoid the piercing there. How was he ever going to be able to go back to school again?

He got home quicker than he remembered the path to be, jogging up the stairs and running into his room. It was hard to think straight through all the emotions he felt now. Oddly enough, the only one he could make out was loneliness. He was lonely. For some reason his body was craving the touch of another human being, it felt like he was being deprived of something he'd just had; like a drug. But that was impossible, he'd only kissed Matthias-. Oh, he had an idea.

Through the tears soaking his cheeks and ruining the eyeliner, he stumbled to his feet and ran over his drawers, grabbing the torn-off book page with the short letter and number on it. Arthur wasn't thinking straight, his brain was clouded with an overwhelming amount of hate, sadness, and humiliation. "Dad!?" The Englishman called loudly, not hearing a response. Perfect. He must of been out. He went back to his phone, trying to remember more of the Nordic. Cute, funny, sweet, that was about it. Good enough.

Arthur texted the number as fast as his trembling fingers would allow, sending a quite simply message that got his point through. '1724 Willow Branch Avenue, come quick, bring condoms -Arthur'.

If there was one thing he knew for certain at least now, he hated Alfred Fucking Jones' guts, that was the one thing he'd never be confused about that again.


	5. Lots of Great Sex and a Jealous American

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The perfect relationship of Arthur and Matthias doesn't last as long as some would have liked it to, and it all goes downhill from there.

**Chapter 5**

**Lots of Great Sex and a Jealous American**

The saying 'don't judge a person until you've walked in their shoes' had never been more true for Alfred F. Jones the following two weeks. He'd never taken the time to wonder how it felt when someone walked by him in the hallway and he was getting a backpack 'accidentally' slammed into his stomach, or 'accidentally' having a pencil flung at the back of his head in class. And he certainly had never realized how it felt to have a group of bleach-blondes laughing at him from a corner. And not a 'oooh he's cute' kind of laugh, but a 'oh god! Becky, that's the asshole!' kind of laugh. Well, now he could say he knew what it felt like. And after that experience, he swore to  _never_  hurt anyone again, not just Arthur. No one had gone past pestering him in the hallways, most likely because of the fact they knew he could cause a lot more harm than they could. He was still amazed to realize that the words cut deeper than actual wounds did. And that was when he officially felt like the biggest bag of dicks in the world, for saying what he'd said.

The school was now divided into two groups. Those who still thought Alfred was all that, and those who did not. The football team, the girls just looking out for his body, basically everyone at that party; was still on his side. They thought he was 'just taking up for himself' in a fight. And then there was those who did not like him at all. Everyone not popular, anyone who'd been hurt by society's 'norms'. Especially anyone who wasn't quite straight, despised him. But there was one person on that side who Alfred cared for, and that was Liz. She practically led the 'anti-Alfred' group, every time they locked eyes she had another mouthful of things to say to him. To sum it all up, Alfred wasn't having a great life at the time.

Not to mention the fact Arthur hadn't shown up for school those past two weeks. Not once. At first the American thought he was just really good at avoiding him, but a confirmation from one of his football friends (their mom was the school nurse), Arthur was out with a nasty flu virus. Apparently, anyways. So on that Friday evening, the American skipped out on practice and walked to Arthur's house. Yep, walked, his mom had taken away his privileges to a car. Surprisingly enough, it hadn't been about the accident at all. She'd cooed and worried over Alfred, told him she'd get him some used one he could drive. But that was all stopped when a phone call from Liz made its way through to her. And that was the end of his mom begin nice, or letting him do anything, really. She'd been just as angry as Elizabeta had been, furious Alfred would say something like that in front of the whole school (for Liz had left out none of the grimy details on what Alfred had uttered).

Alfred had to give Arthur some credit, walking took more effort than he thought. Not even thirty minutes after leaving school he was there, but it felt like it'd been forever.  _'I never realized how freakin' long it took him to get to the hospital'_ , he thought with a little frown, glancing down to his arm. It was in a sling, wrapped up in a cast beneath that. He would of thought coach would have kicked him off the team, but as it turned out he just got him to do runs, and anything he could do with one arm.

The American looked up to the house in front of him, reaching out to ring the doorbell, and waiting. He glanced to the side to assure the Englishman's father was not home, before sapphire hues focused in on the door again. No answer… He rang the doorbell again, waiting for a moment before sighing and reaching under the plant pot, retrieving the key. Arthur  _had_ specifically told him not to come back, but he wanted to make sure that the Brit was at least breathing, just to ease his nerves. In the house Alfred walked, looking around slowly before he went any further in. It didn't smell as strongly of alcohol than it had before, and something about the house felt a little more inviting.

It seemed like a normal thing to do now, walk up the flight of carpet-covered stairs and down the hall to Arthur's room. He'd made the trip a few times, but now was the only time he realized, when Arthur was  _very_ mad at him. Alfred didn't think to knock as he twisted the knob and shouldered open the stubborn door, lips parting to speak to the other before he realized there was more than one teen in the bed.

Both Arthur and Matthias looked up to see who was at the door in harmony, eyes wide and surprised as their skin glistened with sweat. Sweat? Even a guy like Alfred, who'd had more sex than he could remember, took a moment to realize they were covered in sweat because of what they were doing. He could see Arthur still had boxers on, at least he'd caught them before things went all the way.

"Wh-what the holy fuck!?" Alfred demanded in a panic, a hand raising up to slap over his eyes as if to make sure he didn't look, although it dropped a minute later so he could glare over at them. He would of thought they'd be embarrassed, but a series of giggles -yes, giggles- slipped from Arthur's lips.

"Calm down Jones, what're you doing here? I'm kind of bu-busy!" Arthur's voice snapped as Matthias quite obviously rolled their hips together. "M-Matthias, stop that…" He scolded quietly.

"Ewewewew, god that's so gross!" Alfred grumbled, watching as the Nordic slowly crawled off of the other, using the sheets to cover his waist up. He realized immediately though, he was not wanted there. Although Arthur was still in a bit of a happy daze, obviously from Matthias' presence, the Nordic was shooting Alfred a glare that could cut ice, almost like an overprotective mother. "Ugh, Arthur, I need to talk to you." Alfred said after clearing his throat, looking down to the floor with a hateful grimace, trying not to look at the mostly nude teens. Although the floor was no better, half a dozen empty and torn condom packets, a bottle of lube here and there. So he looked back up to them, watching as the Englishman slowly sat up.

Alfred never thought he'd be madder to see bruises on Arthur in his life, but the hickies all over his neck proved to piss the American off more than anything else. Matthias shook his head though, wrapping his arms around Arthur's waist from behind. "Nah man, you're not getting any more chances to talk to him. Go away." The teen on the bed said, still shaking his head.

Arthur turned around to look at the other to quietly protest, the two had a quiet argument under their breath, until it ended with a soft sigh leaving the emerald-eyed teens mouth. He looked back up to Alfred, shaking his head once quietly, thick eyebrows bent in a mixture of sadness and anger. What an odd mix.

"You're not his mouth, you don't get to make the decisions." Alfred replied quietly, walking over to the bed and standing over them with his arms crossed over his chest, tapping his foot on the floor with a motherly viscousness he didn't know he possessed.

"His mouth has made plenty of decisions~" Matthias cooed in a sugary sweet tone, although the dirty intent was obvious, seeing as Arthur blushed and smacked his arm with a half-smile. Alfred made a face of utter disgust, tongue sticking out as he scrunched his nose up. Who would of guessed he was feeling a tad jealous as well as disgusted? It surprised even him, he didn't realize until he felt it pinching at his heart, that Arthur seemed so happy here.

The room was tense for a good while before Matthias hopped out of the bed, hearing Alfred screech a comment to put pants on. He laughed, rolling his eyes. "You can talk to me, and I'll convey to Arthur whatever isn't an insult." The Dane replied, wrapping one of the many sheets around his waist. No way pants would go on over what was happening between his legs.

Alfred seemed conflicted over this, until he finally nodded with an exasperated sigh and walked outside into the hallway, avoiding stepping on condom wrappers as he went. Matthias followed out behind him, closing the door to Arthur's room softly before leaning on the wall, looking over to Alfred with an expecting glare. Alfred was the first to speak.

"I don't know what the shit you're doing with him, but-"

"We're fucking, Alfred, just like you told him to do." Matthias was obviously  _very_  mad, there was practically steam rising off of his body.

"I did not-"

" 'Go make out with gay-ass Matthias; he was  _all over you_ at that party. Itching to get in your pants.' You all but told him to. So we did. Repetitively."

"I didn't mean it  _that_ way, faggot… Plus, what do you think you're even doing with him? You know he doesn't care for you, right? Arthur doesn't  _feel_  for people."

Matthias frowned, crossing his arms over his chest. "Firstly, you know nothing about him."

"I've known him for four years now-"

"I hardly think beating up someone counts as knowing them." Matthias stated in a scary calm voice.

"Okay, okay, maybe I don't know him well. But I know his type. He doesn't  _love_  you, he won't, he never will." Alfred had no idea what he was basing this off of, he had no clue what 'Arthur's type' was at all. He just wanted to say something hurtful, because he was hurt. He was expecting to come over and find a sad, upset Englishman. He was expecting them to sit down and watch a movie after he apologized over and over again. Not this, he didn't think Arthur would be perfectly fine. Some part of him  _wanted_  Arthur to want to be around him.

"That's probably true. I'm probably just a fling, probably just someone who's ridiculously good at sex. He's probably using me as a coping mechanism. But you know what, he's having to use me to get over what you said. He may not love me, or even like me. But there's one thing I know, Alfred  _Fucking_ Jones, and that is that he  _hates_ you. Don't ever think he doesn't, he's made it perfectly clear. He may not love me; but he despises you. I can sleep well at night knowing that."

There it was again, Alfred realized how words stabbed harder than any knife. It left a stinging sensation in his heart, and he stood there like an idiot, a horrible cross of anger and desperation sinking in on his features as he was silent for at least a minute. Matthias had done a wondrous job at getting his point across; because fucking  _ow_ , that sunk in. He swallowed thickly, finally breaking the tense eye contact and looking down at the carpeted hallways floor. He hadn't felt like this since his dad had died. Don't get him wrong, his dad had been a useless slacker with a poor attitude for his mother, but for gods sakes, it'd been his dad. It still stung, like this had. He was mad at Arthur for getting half the school to hate him, even though it was his own fault. But it still hurt.

"I wanna apologize to him… Let me have five minutes to apologize." Alfred finally said in a softer tone than he'd used in a while, eyes still trained on the ground.

"No."

"Please, Matthias, and I don't say that often. Let me apologize… You can stand right outside-"

"And you can stand right outside this house, if you want. All night, you can listen to us. But you're not apologizing to him. You've done enough damage." The Dane's words were final, set in the cold, harsh tone of the surrounding atmosphere. "I'm not going to let you near him, so forget it."

And that was it, Alfred nodded once numbly and slowly turned around, heading back down the stairs and out the house. It was completely impossible to tell what he was feeling, his face was as blank as a board. Arthur watched him slowly head down the sidewalk, away from the house. A second later Matthias entered again, the grim look leaving his face as a smile reappeared. "What'd you say to him? I've never seen him like that." Arthur said quietly.

"Oh nothing. Just told him to leave… Now, where were we?" The Dane mumbled with a happy grin, slowly climbing back on top of the other, hearing a little giggle. It'd taken a week to get Arthur to stop frowning, another day to start hearing the little giggles. They'd come at random times; coming down from off a high, as his neck was being tormented. But they were adorable.

"Heh… Grinding, we were grinding…" He whispered back quietly, his hands slipping down to quickly tug off the blanket he had wrapped around his waist.

"Right~ How could I forget?" Matthias said, leaning down to nip at his ear as he pressed their hips together, pinning Arthur between his body and the bed. Arthur let out a squeal of delight, using his thighs and legs to flip them over, sitting up and grinding.

"I think it's my turn to take a go at it~"

* * *

It was more than a slight surprise to see a dash of red and a hint of emerald walking through the crowds of school the following Monday. Alfred had been in the gutters ever since visiting his house the previous weekend, but seeing the other (finally without his overprotective Dane, he might add) was a bit of a lifter-upper. The American made his way through the mob of teenagers, ignoring some of the pats on the back, and especially the rude words. Usually they sunk in, but now they bounced off as he grinned. Why in the world he was so happy to see Arthur was a mystery. But he just was, even if all he got was a rude 'fuck off'.

"Arthur! Eyy, Arthur!" Alfred pronounced loudly, getting a few peoples attentions. Some thought he planned on fighting again, so he made sure to wear an extra large, happy and innocent grin on his face. But the Englishman did not turn around, just like last time. Instead he sped up, breaking off into a light jog through the crowd. A few people spared him a glance, moving out of the shorter's way. And he was gone, within a matter of seconds. Alfred stopped moving, which probably wasn't the best idea considering someone ran right into him. There was a few mumbled apologies before the person was continuing to walk. And there Alfred stood, eyes slightly wide as his lower lip stuck out in a pout. He could feel a small sting in the back of his heart, a more minor version of what he felt when he'd been scolded like a child that last Friday. For the life of him, he couldn't figure out what it was.

That wasn't the last time there was sighting of Arthur that week, but every time the seme to our adorable little UsUk pairing saw him, he would run off. It seemed the Englishman was dead set on avoiding him. Once there was a time Alfred could have ran up to him, but it was after school and Matthias had somehow appeared, and was planting one on Arthur just behind the school building. The two looked far too into it for his liking, so he left them be. Life became surreal, weeks passed by like it was a split second. Arthur came out of his shell, he'd ask people to pair up with him for a project, he'd chat with admiring girls and milk that (hot as hell) accent for all it was worth. October turned to November, November to December. Each week Alfred heard more gossip about Arthur, and slowly the bad stuff stopped flowing altogether.

Not to say the American had lost much of his popularity, the only difference was people that hadn't liked him before were more vocal about it now. The football team still had his back, so did the cheerleaders, soccer players, baseball, you name it. He'd gotten on the good sides of all the sports players long ago. At first he'd been upset about Liz dumping him (publicly, he might add). Over the course of weeks, however, the only heartache he felt was when he looked at Arthur. (Which, by the way, his oblivious American head still couldn't process.)

Two weeks into the snowy month of giving and love, Alfred wasn't feeling very loved. It was too cold out to practice football but once a week, so after school he'd wander around the school looking for someone to hang out with. Nine times out of ten he'd give up an hour later and go home to go play Halo. Don't get the whole 'Arthur becoming popular thing' wrong, it wasn't like his fame came over night. But he was the talk of the school. With blood-red hair and an attitude to match, who wouldn't be? Now the school had a thick line down the middle of it. You simply weren't friends with a football player and a goth. Nor a cheerleader and an arts student. 'Popular' and 'not popular' was more defined than ever, and all because of two teens.

* * *

December seventeenth, oh, what a day. During the middle of first block little flurries of snow started to fall, the sky a deep grey color. Students almost went into a panic they were so happy, teachers making loud 'ugh' sounds as they knew that winter break would have at least three extra days added onto it. Classrooms were left a total mess as teenagers practically sprinted for the doors, Alfred no exception. He was eager to escape the taunting for a few weeks. It'd finally dulled down, at least. Maybe one crude remark a day, but he was starting to regain his standing. Instead of shrinking himself down and muttering an apology when people yelled, now he just shot them an 'I don't give a single fuck' look.

Alfred wrapped his bombers jacket closer around himself as the cold slapped at his face, hands fumbling to reach for the zipper and yank it all the way up to his neck. At last, he'd gotten the cast on his arm taken off. It felt like heaven, to not be restrained by the thing. "Ah, time to go sleep..." He muttered to himself with a half grin, turning left to walk across the abandoned lot that was once going to be a supermarket. It was an easy cut through to where he parked his car. Something red caught his eye and an all too obvious British accent caught his ear. A glance to his right and he saw Arthur, not alone, sadly. Matthias was standing in front of him, bundled up in a long coat and scarf. Although they weren't kissing, or anything for the matter. There was a moving truck on the road a few feet away, two pissed-off looking parents waiting in the front.

"What the hell do you mean you're moving away? M-Matthias, you can't just spring this on me." Arthur's voice floated through the air, strong but obviously upset.

"I'm sorry, Arthur, I'm so sorry. I-, they were all packed when I got back from school, they didn't bother to tell me… You know we move a lot, my mom got a new job… I can't do anything about it…" Said Matthias, distress obvious in the crinkles under his eyes, the deep set frown on his lips.

"You can't just- Bloody 'ell, you can't just move away… Where the hell to?"

"Quebec…"

"CANADA? YOU'RE MOVING TO FUCKING QUEBEC, CANADA, AND YOU DIDN'T SAY SHIT ABOUT IT?"

"I DIDN'T KNOW SHIT ABOUT IT, I JUST TOLD YOU ARTHUR."

"YOU HAD TO HAVE SOME WARNING, PEOPLE DON'T JUST  _MOVE TO CANADA_  FOR THE HELL OF IT."

"MY FAMILY  _DOES_."

Although the two were shouting at each other, the anger wasn't necessarily directed towards each other. There was a loud, prolonged honk from the car horn, the two teens looking over to the car.

"ONE  _FUCKING MINUTE, MOM, GODDAMN."_ Matthias shouted, rage directed right at her. It was obvious by the astounded look on the older woman's face he'd never used that tone or dialect in front of her. But he was upset, practically seething and even Alfred could see it. He looked back to Arthur, eyebrows upturned into a look of despair. Another honk from an obviously pissed off father, and a last torn look between Matthias to his parents, then back to Arthur. "I'm so sorry… Sososososososo sorry, Arthur, I can't do anything… I lo-" BEEP BEEP MOTHERFUCKERS.

"Lo- You  _lo-_ what?" Arthur demanded in a soft tone, wanting to hear some form of endearment. He wanted to know he was accepted in the world, appreciated by some. He looked down to the ground with a quiet scowl, bright red hair seeming even more bright with the snow flakes caught up in it. Matthias seemed to be stuck between a rock and a hard place, biting down on his lower lip roughly, seeing his father hop out of the car and begin to walk over to them, although he was a good deal of time away.

"I loved spending time with you… Give me a call, we can work something out." Ouch. Arthur felt that one. Probably because he'd hyped up the idea of someone saying 'I love you' in his mind for years now. Although he wasn't one to dream about the future, the thought of someone practically saying 'you are loved, I love you despite your  _many_  flaws and bad attitude' sounded very nice to him.

"No, we won't… Whatever, whatever, go. Your dad seems pissed."

"Arthur-"

" _Go_ , don't call. I loved spending time with you, too." Arthur's last sentence was practically dripping with a mix of sarcasm and frustration. A peck on the lips later, and Matthias had a hand on his arm and was being dragged back to the rental truck. He pressed a kiss to the tip of his fingers and blew it to the Brit, although Arthur had already turned away and was hastily walking away. His arms crossed over his lithe chest as he heard the sound of a car door opening and closing, and the horn of the large truck as it pulled away. He shivered and shook the snow flakes out of his hair, keeping his eyes down until he was well off school property.

And there Alfred stood, realizing he'd been half-hidden behind a partially demolished wall, looking like the biggest stalker. Soft cerulean eyes glanced from the small dot that was now the truck, to Arthur, then back to the truck. He wanted to go talk to him, to comfort him. But Arthur  _hated_ him, according to Matthias.

So with a frown, Alfred slowly turned around and walked back to his car; alone.

* * *

Christmas break was seriously under appreciated, it'd only taken a few weeks of not being the king of the school for Alfred to realize that. Being a social butterfly, he usually loathed long breaks since everyone traveled. But now he was thankful for the serenity of his room, a bundle of blankets, and the flatscreen TV that was at the foot of his bed. Four days had passed since the seventeenth, when they'd escaped from that prison three days early. The ground was covered in a foot and a half of snow, breaking a world record for Washington DC. He enjoyed the fact everyone was snowed in, while some panicked and trekked their way to the nearest Wal-Mart to stock up on milk and bread, his mom had actually bothered to watch the forecast and they were set for at least two more weeks. Alfred hadn't left the house since he'd returned home that day from school, not to mention the fact he'd turned off all social media; and finally took the time to enjoy not having to live up to other peoples standards. He left his phone on, but any message from any body other than his mom asking 'wht u want 4 dinner' was ignored.

As if the thought of his cell phone was the cause, it buzzed softly on his night stand, the screen lighting up with a message. Alfred, through messy bed-head, horrendous smelling breath, and three day old pajamas barely paid any mind to it. But the message kept his screen lit up, making him wonder. Alfred sighed dramatically and threw aside the X-box controller, losing it in the midst of the sheets. He was about to tell whoever it was to fuck off, until he saw a random number. Curiosity taking over, he clicked on the little 'accept' button.

'Alfred, come over, I need your help. -Arthur'

Alfred found himself reading it over a few times, trying to determine if he should be exceedingly happy, or pissed off that Arthur thought he'd do anything he wanted him to without question. But he didn't have time to reply, because another came in.

'Please, I need help -Arthur'

"No need to pretend you're typing out a novel, Mr. Prestigious…" Alfred whispered to himself with a little frown, although after reading it over once more, it stopped being so funny. That didn't sound like a light and joking text, to him. And yeah, he had trouble reading the atmosphere, but this didn't seem like a 'fix my shower' kind of ask.

'In case u didnt reelize, theres a foot of snw out ther.' Alfred typed back in reply, not really bother to worry about spelling corrections as he hit the sent button. While he was at it, he added Arthur's name into his phone, just so his mom wouldn't ask who was asking for him to come over randomly.

'Please -Arthur'

That was about all it took for Alfred to get up, throw on his bombers jacket and a pair of warmer pants, boots, a scarf, and a hat. Either Arthur wanted his hot water tank to be fixed, or something was wrong. Plus, his heart was doing this weird beat-against-his-ribcage thing, maybe it was a side effect of being lazy. Nonetheless, now would be a good time to try and make peace with the Englishman. "MOM! I'm going out!" Alfred hollered as he was heading out the door, hearing some exasperated 'don't get frostbite!' come from the kitchen.

Walking through the snow was a hell of a lot harder than he thought it would of been. There were absolutely  _no_ previous tracks, so he had to trudge his way through what was usually a twenty minute walk. It ended up to be forty five, which was the worst time of his life. "He better have a serious fucking problem…" Alfred grumbled angrily as the neighborhood of Arthur's finally came into view, and he slid through the side entrance of the gates.  _Finally_ , he arrived at the front door, kicking the snow off of his legs (and entire body, practically) as he knocked. His eyes wandered over to the empty garage, then back to the front door; which by the way was not opening. A little frown rose up on his lips as his knuckled rapped up against the mahogany again, waiting. It only took half a minute of waiting in the freezing cold for Alfred to be too frozen to stand still. So he reached down and twisted the knob, able to open the thing with his shoulder. The first thing he did was yank off his jacket and shoes and toss them on the floor, and the snow inside of them along with it. Alfred closed the door quickly, finally looking around.

Immediately, his nose crinkled at the aroma of alcohol and he nearly gagged, a hand rising up to cover his mouth and nose. It wasn't exactly terrible, but it was like someone had doused the air with sprayable vodka. Hell, he could get secondhand drunk by just inhaling this shit. "Arthur! Come on man, I walked all the damn way over here, you'd better have some sort of an emergency."

"It is, in a way."

Alfred jumped a foot in the air as he walked down the hall, hearing a muffled voice coming from god knows where. "Holy hell, are you a ghost!?" The American proclaimed in panic, looking around.

"No, just stuck in a closet." The American raised an eyebrow, slowly heading down the hall and stopping in front of a closet, where labored breathing seemed to be originating from. He twisted the little golden lock and opened the door, letting it swing open. Alfred's mouth opened, then closed, as his eyes landed on Arthur. And he'd thought the Brit had looked like shit when laying in a pool of his own blood. He looked like he'd been crying, although it was hard to tell with the black eye and dried blood on the side of his head. A split lip too, not to mention blood dried on his lips from his nose. Over all it was hard to see any of the pale skin that usually resigned there, it seemed almost all of it had a light purplish tint. And that was just his face.

"Holy fucking shit, Arthur, wha- who-"

"I fell in a closet and it locked." Arthur stated. Alfred didn't even bother to call him out, it was such a sad, ludicrous lie. But the absolutely miserable looking Englishman sitting curled up in a closet probably didn't need to be told he was lying through his bloody lips.

"Yeah, yeah, okay. How long have you been in here?" Alfred questioned, kneeling down in front of him and offering out a hand instinctively.

"… Two days…" Arthur said slowly, slowly reaching out to take the offered hand, having to use it a good deal to get out of the closet and standing. He leaned up against the wall casually, although Alfred doubted he'd be able to stand up without the structure behind him.

"Two- You mean to tell me you sat in here for  _two days_ , and didn't think to call me?" It seemed crazy and quite frankly stupid, for someone as smart as Arthur.

"I just found your number in a coat pocket a little bit ago, plus, that doors obviously made to hold in warriors, I couldn't get through it."

"Yeah, that's because you weigh, like, a hundred pounds. I doubt anything as small as you could break down the door."

"Asshole."

"Jerk." The two of them looked at each other for a long moment, eyes clashing. Alfred was the first to smile, Arthur followed with a little nod of the head. Oh well, it wasn't a perfect world, but it seemed like that was as close as he was getting. "Sorry for what I sai-"

"No, no, no we don't need to have this girly conversation where we both apologize, and we cry and hug it out. It's said and done, forget it." That sounded more rehearsed than Alfred would of excepted, so he just nodded quietly. It was excepted of someone who was locked in a closet for two days. "Sorry for making you walk through an hour of snow, though… How bad is it out there? Last time I saw it there was only a few inches…"

"Like, a foot and a half now ma- Okay, wait, that's not the problem. For your little 'fall in the closet', you really look as beat up as shit. We need to get you to a hospi-"

"No way."

"What do you mean 'no way', Arthur, you need help. Stitches on that cut, probably." Alfred motioned to the cut on his head.

"I don't… I don't like needles, alright? I don't want to go to a hospital when I don't have to." It was such a childish dislike that Alfred had to smile, although the situation was not at all comical. He used to not like needles either, when he was four.

"Arthur, you need a  _doctor_."

"All I needed was for you to come get me out of this closet. Sorry to make you walk all this way, but I'm fine. I can handle myself, I always have." Arthur wrapped an arm loosely around his own chest, wincing. Although it'd been dark in that closet, it didn't take rocket science to know he had a cracked (if not broken) rib. It made it a tad hard to breathe.

"Come to my house, my cousin's a doctor, he can help."

"No." The iciness in Arthur's tone was more than Alfred expected to hear from someone who'd been locked in a closet for two days. Not to mention he must be thirsty, starving, and in major pain. Yet here he was, standing upright (barely) and arguing. It seemed by the glare Alfred was getting, not all was completely forgiven.

"I'm not asking you to, I'm telling you to."

"Oh yeah? And I'm telling you no. Go tell all your friends Kirkland got beat up by his dad and thrown in a closet, if you want, but I'm not coming with you."

Alfred had known what had happened, he had no doubt Arthur's father had done this; but hearing it come from the Englishman's lips made it all a bit more real. So instead of arguing and going back and forth with the red-headed teen, the blonde reached over and slid his arms beneath Arthur effortlessly, literally sweeping him off of his feet and holding him against his chest. There was a loud, obvious sound of pain and anger as the shorter was picked up, followed by a series of curse words. "What the fuck, Jones?! Put me down, dammit!"

"Hate me all you want, you need help. My cousin's a doctor, Mattie, he's stuck in our home for the holidays, so he can help you. I don't think he will have any needles, if that's what you're worried about. But I'm not going to let you stay here in this gross-smelling home for Christmas, even if you hate me." Alfred said in a cold tone, beginning to head to the front door, leaning down and pulling his jacket around his own shoulders. Next he managed to hold up Arthur and push the coat closet open with his foot. Grabbing the biggest jacket (that didn't smell like alcohol) he could find, Alfred wrapped it around a protesting Englishman, ignoring the cursing and anger. Arthur weighed even less than he looked; and that in itself was slightly concerning.

"I'm serious, Alfred, put me down." Arthur practically seethed, although he'd given up on struggling considering the copious amount of pain it caused.

"I'll put you down once we're at my house. I swear, I'll stay in my room for the holidays, you won't have to be around me at all. But staying here's pathetic, Arthur, it's pathetic to prefer staying here in a gross-smelling house with your gross father. By the way, where's the bastard?"

"Firstly it's not pathetic- Secondly, he probably got snowed in somewhere, I haven't heard him around the house for two days."

"That's probably because you've been stuck in a closet."

"Suck it, Jones."

Arthur seemed to be torn between being angry and wanting to smile, so he settled with wrapping the jacket offered around his shoulders as the front door was opened and the cold hit him like a wall. Being caught in a closet had its ups. There had been blankets and a fully charged, old DS with a Pokemon game in it. After mopping up the blood all over his body with an old jacket he'd stayed all warm in there.

The Englishman was left between a rock and a hard place; rather, the cold or the inviting and warm chest that was just inches away. As appetizing as the practical pillow looked, the stubbornness in his soul won over, and Arthur used the remaining strength in his body to restrain himself from melting into the other.

* * *

The walk back to Alfred's house was slow and grueling. Since neither of them could decide whether or not to still be mad about what had been said, the small amount of conversation held was pitiful and emotionless. Alfred had the audacity to say, "So, nice weather we're having?" and earned an earful of Arthur complaining about how cold it was outside. Not to mention that one time Alfred's arms had been about to fall off from carrying over a hundred pounds for near an hour. So he'd, you know, accidentally dropped Arthur. Not to say the snow didn't cushion his fall; but the pitiful little sound of panic and pain that could be heard when the Englishman collided with the snow covered in a layer of ice made Alfred near have a heart attack.

By the end of it, Arthur didn't look so good. Although Alfred was sure his pinkie toes were going to suffer from frost bite, it was evident the redhead had lost more blood than he'd first thought. He put the paleness of the snow to shame, easily, and by the last ten minutes of their little adventure, he could only mumble out little 'yes's and 'no's to their conversation. Alfred realized about halfway through their walk how stupid it was to bring Arthur out in this kind of cold. There was no turning back though, either way was still a thirty minute walk.

It was a relief to feel the hot air slap them in the face as they stumbled in through Alfred's front door. The American 'carefully' dropped Arthur on the couch and quickly got the snow-covered jacket off of him, doubting that it was helping retain much heat. Arthur had no complaints when a blanket was thrown over him, he reached down to slowly get off his shoes, before curling up and staying beneath it. "Y-you're such a bloody idiot for walking through that…" Arthur grumbled from beneath the blanket, hearing the American walk around to close the front door, then shed off the extra layers of clothing.

"No c-car could get through that, not even four wheel drive. Even snow plows have to wait a day." Alfred said, stuttering slightly from the cold as he walked around quickly, clasping his hands together and rubbing them against each other to feel some kind of heat. "Matthew! Mattie, get your ass down here!" He hollered suddenly, standing at the base of the stairs as he cupped his hands around his mouth, making sure to be loud enough to get the Canadian's attention.

There was soon the sound of soft footsteps from the hall on the second floor, and soon there was a violet-eyed man at the top of the stairs. "Alfred? Mon dieu, what is it? I was sleeping…"

"Get out of your sleep phase and into your doctor phase, I need you down here." Alfred responded in a quite serious tone, motioning over to the living room with a rough jerk of the head, before disappearing back into the room with the Brit. By that time Arthur had sat up and wrapped the blanket around his shoulders, legs curled into his chest as he looked around the large room. Alfred had been to his house, but never the other way around. It wasn't what he expected of some hotshot football captain, although he supposed it wasn't Alfred who paid the bills.

His house was set back in a small but comfortable neighborhood, near a grande lake that he could see from the window off to his left. The house itself was decorated with furniture he could only describe as ordinary. There wasn't anything that stood out. The couch he sat on was a soft brown cloth, little square patterns all over it. The lamp that illuminated the room gave off a dull yellow light, and the wall was a dark blue color, nearly black. An old rocking chair sat in the corner, a few of the strings loose that made it look rather uncomfortable to sit in.

Alfred walked back into the room a moment later, and their eyes met for a brief moment. It was slightly hard for the American to look at Arthur for long though, not only because of the mute anger between each other; but because of all the bruises and cuts that covered the Englishman's face and neck. To think another human being could put someone through that was a mystery to him. Okay, maybe if you had an asshole kid it wouldn't be too hard, but as far as he could tell; Arthur was respectful and quiet most of the time in his own home. "Art…thur.. Arthur, this is Matthew," Alfred motioned to the appearing Canadian, almost using the Brit's nickname he'd acquired.

"Bonjour, Arthur. It's a pleasure to meet you. I'm Matthew Williams, as Alfred had mentioned." The young adult said in the overly calm tone, something Alfred knew he used with patients. Although his voice was calm though, it wasn't hard to watch the flood of emotions on Matt's face as his eyes landed on the injuries. His mouth opened then closed, quickly making the mental decision not to ask. "I'll see what I can do to help with those, oui? I'll be back in a moment, let me go get a first aid kit." And then he was gone.

Arthur just sat there, curled up in a blanket and obviously uncomfortable; both physically and emotionally. Every time he moved the blood drained from his face and he winced, a hand placed over the place where his ribs were. Not to mention it  _had_ to be awkward, sitting in the home of a teen who he'd been telling himself he hated… It wasn't long before Matthew was back and taking a seat on the couch next to Arthur, white latex gloves stretched over his nimble fingers as he opened the clear little box, pushing his glasses up on his nose further. "Most of these cuts are older… So no stitches for anything past a day old." The doctor mused.

"They're all two days old." Arthur replied almost instantly, wanting to make sure there was no needle going anywhere  _near_ his skin. Alfred had taken a seat in the uncomfortable-looking rocking chair, observing carefully.

"Alright…" Matthew mused, a hand reaching up to gently brush the matted-down bloodied hair from his forehead, his own eyebrows creasing down. Under the hair were older scars, half a dozen of them. Being one of the only top notch doctors, it took half a second to realize they were from glass. Matthew could tell how tensed up the Englishman was, trying not to move so the hand near his forehead wouldn't hit any of the recent cuts. His fingertips brushed over his cheeks, able to feel the heat radiating off of the skin there through his gloves. The Canadian didn't do anything for a good minute, eyes carefully scanning over the Englishman's face.

Finally, the Canadian rose to his feet without having fixed a thing, shooting a glance over to his cousin. "Alfred, may I have a word?"

The American gave a surprised look and a raise of an eyebrow, before nodding. He muttered a little 'be right back' to a concerned looking Arthur; who by ever passing moment ended up looking worse and worse. Now no longer freezing, his cheeks were a rosy red color. Not good, not good at all. The two relatives walked into the room next to the living room, cracking the door in hopes the Englishman wouldn't listen in on their conversation. "What happened to him, Alfred?"

"How am I supposed to know?" Alfred defended immediately, tilting his head to the side. A lie, highly evident too. But he didn't want to betray Arthur again by telling yet another person, so he kept his mouth shut. Matthew frowned, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Alfred F. Jones, you don't just get to bring in some dyed-hair, piercing-loving teenager that's beaten to all hell without giving me an explanation. Talk."

"Matthew, I don't freakin' know. He texted me, told me he needed help. Some jerk from our school must of hurt hi-"

"Bull. Shit. Alfred. You know it is." Matthew said in the whispery, but commanding tone. "He reminds me of a patient we got in that had been abused by her spouse for over a year."

"For gods sake, Mattie, he's just got a few bruises and cuts-"

"No, he does not. Where can I even start? There's something called a tripod fracture, or zygoma fracture. Those occur in the cheekbones when the bone there has been either broken or fractured; a  _lot_ of times. Imagine waking up every other day to have a brick thrown at your face. That's the kind of side effect you'd get. It's where the bone's been reset poorly, usually by hand, and it leaves a minuscular dent in the bone."

"I can't see anything, his cheekbones have always looked fine to me."

"It's a doctor thing, there's a microscopic difference in each side. And don't interrupt me. There's also something known as a naso-orbital-ethmoid fracture. It's where a nose has been broken and snapped back into place… And I mean, this has been going on for years; any doctor could see it in the bone structures. Bones slowly give in to pressure that's applied regularly. Need I go on?" Matthew tapped his foot against the floor impatiently. From the other room, Arthur was sitting up straight, able to hear every other word. He was mentally cursing Alfred's name, hoping the American wouldn't say anything.

Alfred sighed dramatically, running a hand through his hand. "Well… I mean, it's like; complicated… The football team…"

" _Your friends? Your friends did this?"_ Matthew's tone was seething, being a doctor made it easier to notice the little things.

"Well, not  _all_  of it…" Alfred took a step away from the shorter man, out of the range of fire.

"And you never did anything to stop it? Oh, wait, Alfred, mon dieu… You never… You wouldn't  _help them_ _…_  Would you?"

Silence. Dead silence. Alfred didn't even attempt to defend himself, he just hung his head and said nothing, muttering quiet apologies as he heard the Canadian cursing at him in loud, angry French. It took a full solid minute for the violet-eyed man to calm down, his chest rising and falling in anger. A hand outstretched and Alfred felt himself being slapped, surprisingly not as hard as Liz had those weeks ago. Finally, Matthew inhaled slowly, another hand raising so he was pointing towards the stairs. "Go upstairs. Stay. I'll take care of him. Stay up there and  _away from him_. Do you hear me, you gigantic asshole of an American?"

"Matt, no, I gotta stay down here with him. I know I was an ass, but that was forever ago! Months, even. You can't just ground me-"

"I can, and I will. Or I'll go get your mom and  _she'll_ ground you. Up, now. I'll take good care of him; unlike some." Matthew said angrily, taking a step forward, causing Alfred to step back in response, his hand shooting out to grab the railing of the stairs. Finally, he nodded meekly and glanced towards the cracked door, knowing Arthur was past it. Hopefully the Englishman hadn't heard any of that, although the American guessed it was better for Matthew to think he was an asshole instead of telling Arthur's secret to another person. So without another word, he turned around and headed up the stairs, closing his bedroom door quietly behind himself, plopping down on the bed with a frown. He wanted to go down and help the Englishman, but Matthew was fuming. He hadn't seen his cousin that mad since Alfred had nearly ruined the young adults chance at a great scholarship to a college.

The American lay back slowly, looking out the window with a frown. This month was certainly not his month.

* * *

It was pitch black out by the time he heard two sets of feet up the stairs, one heavier and sloppier than the other. A crack in the door showed a glimpse of Arthur and Matthew making their way down the hall, the Englishman leaning heavily on the doctor. Alfred perked up from his bed and his The Walking Dead marathon, slowly hopping out of the many sheets and poking his head out of the door. He could see the two head into the guest bedroom, followed by a few soft words. A moment later Matthew walked out and closed the door quietly behind him, kind violet eyes sharpening and turning into a less-kind look as he saw Alfred. "I'm not going to stop you from going in there, am I?" Matthew said more than asked, walking over to his younger cousin and looking up at him.

"No. Sorry Matt. I carried him all the way here, and I'm worried for him. I'll wait until you're sleeping if you won't let me in."

Matthew looked away without a word, nodding as he began to walk away. His younger cousin was as stubborn as a mule, nothing could change that. "Oui, okay. Just to let you know, I gave him a dose of Local Anesthesia to help with any pain, that also makes him a bit… Dopey, and silly."

"I thought anesthesia knocked you out?"

"General anesthesia does, it's two different things. General keeps them asleep, Local just keeps them out of pain." Matthew explained as he looked over his shoulder, before disappearing into his room. Alfred nodded, slowly looking over to the door that Arthur was behind. For some reason it felt harder to face him now than it had been before Matthew had slapped some perspective into the blue-eyed teen, nonetheless he slowly knocked before opening the door, stepping in. The lights were off and the usually-neat bed was a mess of large and soft looking comforters, slowly rising and falling.

"Arthur…? Hey, are ya awake bro?" The American whispered, seeing the sheets ruffle as a pair of emerald eyes blinked open. Alfred smiled softly at the other, slowly walking in and cracking the door behind him, taking a seat on the edge of the bed.

He was greeted with the goofiest, highest smile he'd ever seen in his life. Arthur was  _clearly_  not lucid, at all. "Alfieeeeeeeeee~" ' _Oh my fucking god, he's so high,'_ Alfred thought with a half grin, watching as the Englishman attempted to sit up, but collapsed against the pillows again. Any open wound he had was covered up neatly with bandages, and his bruises were shining slightly, probably from some cream Matthew had put on.

"Arthur, hey, how you feeling?"

"Greatttt~ How 'bout you?"

"Pretty okay, I guess… You're as high as a kite, aren't you?"

"It feels greattttt~ But Mattie gave me a shot." Arthur pouted suddenly, bruised and cut lower lip sticking out as he pulled down the covers a bit, revealing a small, circular bandaid over his right arm. Such a small thing, but the Brit seemed to be majorly affected by this.

"Aw, did he? But it helped you feel better, didn't it?" Alfred reached out to gingerly rest a hand on the others arm, thumb brushing over the skin near where the bandaid started.

"Yeah… I'm tired." Arthur said suddenly, yawning and forgetting about the asked question as he weakly stretched his arms over his head. Alfred realized Arthur was shirtless as the blankets fell down to his lower torso, copious amounts of bruises all over the skin there. He was sure it would hurt to move had the redheaded teen not of been doped up. Thank god for medicine.

"Sleep, then, sorry for coming in and stopping you from doing so…" Alfred replied in the softest, kindest tone he could manage. His hand moved out to rest on the Englishman's calf innocently, reaching over with another hand to gently pull the blankets up over Arthur again. For a moment the world was silent, the drugged boy had curled back up and closed his eyes, a dopey little grin on his face. Alfred finally got up off the bed with a little sigh, deciding to leave him be until he felt a hand grab his own with shocking speed for an injured person. This was his first time realizing Arthur's skin was burning up and it became highly obvious he had a fever. In the dark of the room it was hard to see anything but silhouettes and shadows, but he had no doubt Arthur's skin was tinted with fever.

"Stay." The punk commanded in an oddly strong and firm voice for someone who had such a silly smile on his face. Alfred turned his head back to look at him, hesitating before taking a seat once more. "Lay." Arthur said in the same tone, pointing to the spot next to him. At this point Alfred found himself shaking his head, even though it didn't sound like such a bad idea. He'd been thinking about that night at the party since, well, since they'd left in the first place. So a chance to just get to lay with the Englishman was an appetizing idea.

"… You hate me, I know you do. Why aren't you acting like it?" Alfred questioned in a tone that resembled sadness and frustration, not understanding how medicine could make a person completely change their opinion on another human being.

"I'm veryyyyy pissed off, but I wanna sleep now and I'm cold. And high." Arthur pointed out, happiness seeping into the tone he was trying to keep serious. "I'll be mad tomorrowwww. Bloody 'ell, just lay down so we can cuddle."

Alfred had nothing to say to this, it was some what a relief to know that the Brit was still mad. He would feel even worse if Arthur had found it in his heart to forgive the American for four  _years_ of being an asshole. So he slowly lay down on the bed next to the other, feeling arms wrap around his neck without hesitation, and he was suddenly  _very_ close to Arthur. For a second he thought he was going to be kissed (which he wouldn't know how to react to), then Arthur simply rested his head on the other's shoulder and closed his eyes with a content little sigh. 'Good night's were mumbled to each other, before the Englishman was out like a light. The last thing he heard Arthur whisper under his breath was, "Straight my arse…" and then the world was eerily silent.

And there lay Alfred; trying to figure out of Arthur's last whispered words were true or not.


	6. Forbidden Fruits and "Never Happened"s

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur likes soup better than humans, Christmas has arrived, and some very special time between the two <3

(Just a warning: Not quite smut but not quite innocent not very far down, don't read around parents! ^_^)

**Chapter 6**

**Forbidden Fruits and "Never Happened"s**

Sneaking out of Arthur's room at six in the morning was not Alfred's cup of tea, but Matthew had come in and woken the American up quietly. He made a good point in under ten seconds; that without pain medication, whenever Arthur woke up he'd be  _exceedingly_ pissed off. So after gently slipping the Englishman's arms from around his body and making sure he was all bundled up; Alfred tiptoed out of the room and closed the door gently behind him. And it was a good thing too, because roughly two hours later Arthur woke up, and from what Matthew said, he had  _not_ been pleased that he could remember cuddling with the American. It was almost sad, Alfred had thought that the punk had accepted his apology for what he'd said, but from the sounds of the profane language flowing from the guest bedroom; he supposed not. And it made sense, Arthur had been hopelessly high last night, and searching for some form of body heat.

The twenty-second of December slowly passed by, and it was probably one of the more painful days in Alfred's life. Because Arthur wasn't doing good. And he meant the 'not doing good' where he had a fever and around four in the evening threw up. But that seemed to be the low of his sickness, at least he only got better from there. Nonetheless, it was painful to hear how difficult it was for Arthur to walk down the hall on his own, or how he sneezed and coughed as he went about. Alfred had never been more excited to jack off and go to bed around twelve that night. Arthur, Matthew, and his mother had long since gone to bed by that point. So he'd locked his door, and nestled into the copious amount of blankets with a box of tissues. This was something he hardly even thought about anymore, it was a way to unwind after a long day.

So there he was, halfway through the process of getting to his high. Thoughts of a faceless girl helped him easily, and for a short while it was as it had always been. He could imagine it clearly, a nice pair of boobs and a great body. Pleasure. No worrying if he was hurting her because she didn't exist, no expectancies. Just the quiet sound of panting and groaning. His free hand gripped onto one of the pillows beside him, back propped up halfway with pillows. His other hand was gripping onto his erection, giving quick, long pumps to the neglected organ. His glasses were thrown on the bedside stand beside him, eyes closed in bliss as he felt pleasure coursing through his veins. Closer, closer, closer… His thumb brushed over the tip and he grunted, biting down on his lower lip.

And then the damnedest thing happened.

A thought, just a thought of Arthur Fucking Kirkland. A simple reminder of how their lips felt together, how the Englishman's legs felt wrapped around his waist, and how their hips felt pressed together; and suddenly the image of a girl was gone. And now it was Arthur.

You see, when a boy's that close to climaxing, there wasn't much to do when it came to what he imagined. Even Alfred found his mind hazed over as he let his thoughts wander. He wondered how more of Arthur's voice would sound, if he'd moan out the American's name. How he'd squirm beneath him. Another few more rapid, tighter pumps, and he was flying. Alfred flipped over and buried his face in the pillows and (for the first time in forever) vocally groaned out Arthur's name. Loud, long, and deeply.

For the next few minutes of cleaning up any mess and unlocking his door, he felt fine. Great; actually. In a haze of pleasure and content. He was certain he hadn't been able to get himself  _that_ well off since the ancient times when he was a newbie at it. And then, just as he was tucking himself under the covers of the dark room, it struck him he'd just jacked off to the thought of Arthur. Of  _Arthur._  His stomach churned in a quite unpleasant way and his eyes widened. For a moment his mind was blank, then thoughts flowed.  _'Woah woah woah Jones, no homo man. You're just tired, your minds fucking crazy. You don't like Arthur. You're mad at him. You're pissed off at him for making people hate you.'_

So Alfred tucked himself into bed slowly, still thinking 'nohomonohomonohomo' in a repeated mantra in his head. He had almost convinced himself of the no homo fact by the time he heard a knock on the door. A groan of tiredness elicited from his lips this time as he rolled over and looked at the door, wondering who the holy fuck was awake at this hour. A sudden thought flashed through his head, and he prayed to God no one had heard him. Not that time. Any other time would of been fine. Not when he thought of Arthur though. "Come in," Alfred croaked tiredly, rubbing his eyes to get the near-sleep out of them as the old piece of wood creaked open, and in popped a head of bright, unnatural red hair. The only difference was now his roots were beginning to poke through. A wheat blonde color Alfred wouldn't of imagined, mostly considering Arthur's eyebrows were black. Well wasn't he a little rainbow of body hair.

Despite his random thoughts of hair color at that moment, the jock was surprised to see the Englishman standing at his door. By no means did he look good, red cheeks and nose, black bags beneath his eyes. Not to mention the overall expression that read 'I feel sick'. "Oh…Hey, Art…"  _'Oh please don't have let him heard me don't let him have heard me don't let him have heard me.'_

"…'Ello…" Arthur seemed to be more at battle with himself than Alfred was, and that was saying something. And then the world went silent. Emerald and sapphire locked for at least a minute, the two just staring at each other for the longest of times.

"Couldn't sleep?" Alfred asked, finally snapping the silence in two.

"No…Bloody fever… Keeps me up."

"I'm pretty sure it's supposed to be the other way around."

"Not for me."

"Oh…" Alfred thought about everything he said carefully, not wanting to fuck up by saying something careless again. Here was Arthur, sickly and tired but not able to sleep. He could of done so many sweet things, like offer to go lay down with him, anything to try and mend whatever little shred of a relationship they had left. "Want me to make you some soup?"  _'Smooth Jones real fucking smooth.'_

"Eh… Sure, if you wouldn't mind…" Arthur muttered with a shrug, a hand raising up to comb his hair out of his eyes. His other hand was clasping two ends of a blanket to his chest, keeping the warm garment wrapped tightly around himself. Alfred had no doubt he was starving, considering he hadn't eaten since he'd thrown up.

"Yeah, sure, no prob." Alfred responded, hopping out of bed and walking past the Brit, eyeing him as he did so. His face was still all bruised and battered, more than half of one side covered in various sized of bandages and obviously in pain. So the two walked down the steps slowly, Alfred having to make sure Arthur didn't fall once by grabbing his wrist and yanking him back against him. Nonetheless, they finally made it to the kitchen without facing any injuries. Arthur took a shaky seat in one of the chairs that surrounded a round table, resting his head on his folded arms. Alfred found it weird how… Normal he looked. Well, granted the bruises. Although he was wearing the same pair of black jeans he'd found him in, Matthew had worked a plain, white t-shirt on. It added a bit more color to him, made him look a bit less goth. Then again, it made the bruises stand out like black paint against a blank canvas.

Alfred began to cook, trying not to think about the fact he'd just jacked off to the thought of the teen sitting down, watching him. And oh yes, he could feel those (gorgeous) emerald eyes boring into his non-clothed back. It had taken him to that point to realize he only had a pair of boxers on. This realization was followed by a mix of self-consciousness and annoyance. First off, people staring at him usually didn't freak him out. Unless he was making said person a bowl of soup near one in the morning. Secondly, some small part of him still thought gay was gross. Nonetheless, Alfred knew perfectly well he'd already said that enough, so he shut the hell up.

What seemed like a forever later, he was producing a hot bowl of chicken soup in front of a very appreciative Englishman. Alfred found the little changes in posture and facial expression interesting, something he'd never noticed before. People like Arthur tended to not be overly vocal when it came to thanks, but the way his eyes lit up and his overly-thick eyebrows lifted a bit showed he was indeed starving. After making sure a spoon, napkin, and glass of water was provided; Alfred took a seat opposite the other. And that commenced the most awkward ten minutes of his life. He came to realize Arthur had only wanted soup and not his company.

"I'm still pissed off at you." Arthur's voice cut through the air suddenly, his voice slurred by a mouthful of soup. Alfred frowned slightly. Thank God he held in a rude comment.

"I know."

"I mean, I'm really bloody pissed off at you; you huge asshole."

"I know. I'm sorry."

"Don't bloody apologize for it…!"

"Why…?" Alfred tilted his head and scrunched up his nose slightly in confusion.  _'Because it makes it hard to hate such a face.'_ Arthur thought, although he shook his head with an agitated frown and went back to his soup. It really was. The way Alfred looked like a kicked puppy when he spoke, the way his shoulders slumped and his voice dropped a pitch. It made it so damn hard to hate that.

The soup was finished five minutes later without much complaint, and the two headed up their separate ways. Alfred stood in his own doorway and watched as Arthur half limped his way back to his room. The American thought that the punk wasn't going to say anything, but for a moment their eyes met and Arthur nearly whispered a little, "Good night, Alfred," before his door creaked closed and the American was left to stare at a now dark hallway. He frowned slightly, seemingly not able to wipe the frustration from his mind as he sulked in his room; finally getting to sleep around three in the morning.

Alfred had come to a conclusion in his final conscious minutes. And it was that totally  _not_ gay for Arthur Kirkland.

* * *

Both of the teenagers in the home slept through the entire next day. Arthur was wiped out from the fever and Alfred was being Alfred. The two finally woke up when it was already dark out again, and the only thing lighting up the living room was a Christmas tree. Around it danced his mother, flinging random lights and ornaments onto the skinny branches of it. Alfred had finally made his way down the creaking stairs around seven in the evening, blinking in confusion as he looked to the cozy room. Matthew sat on the couch with his glasses on, baby blue scrubs on and white, god-awful tennis shoes secured on his feet.

"You're going to work?" Alfred questioned, making both of the adults in the room jump. They turned to see the teen, Matthew giving a half smile.

"It's stopped snowing and there's an overflow of accidents at the hospital. There's an emergency four-wheel drive bus coming around for people that need to get to the hospital, and I'm going to be spending the next three days there." The Canadian explained, his mother nodding absentmindedly to herself as she put a hand on her hip and looked up to the large tree; as if rating it from a 0-10.

"But it's Christmas." Alfred argued quietly, without any particular frustration or vigor in his tone.

"Oh, s'il vous plaît, Alfred. We all know you'll sleep in like you did today. You do every year." Matthew grabbed a pile of paperwork and tied on his coat tightly around himself. Alfred had no complaint to this, he knew that was a completely true claim. Plus, his cousin was at the door and opening it before the American had time to put in a word. "Merry Christmas Eve, Alfred! Aunt Jones! Arthur!" The Canadian said in a louder tone than he usually spoke, before heading out into the snow and closing the door soundly behind himself. Alfred sighed and yawned, turning to look at his mother, who obviously had the intent of making the main room look like Christmas had thrown up on it.

"You don't usually decorate for Christmas, mom, what's up?" Alfred asked, walking further into the room and looking over to her. She sighed, shrugging her shoulders and sparing him a frustrated kind of look.

"I dunno Alfred. This whole year… We've not had a lot of joy flowing in our life, so I thought I'd decorate." Alfred knew what she meant. His mothers sister had died last February, and then Arthur's father… That had taken a bigger toll on her than most people realized. "Plus… Arthur's going to be with us from now on, so it seems like the whole festive thing'll make a good impression." Her mood brightened up a bit, Alfred could visibly see.

"Yeah, 'bout that… He's not actually staying the whole time, is he?" Alfred questioned, raising an eyebrow. Arthur was too mad at the American for them to be forced to stay in the house for the rest of the year. His mother rolled her eyes, although she was smiling.

"You two graduate in June, and I've already talked to him about it. He's going back to England the day after graduation day. So he's going to be staying here with us until then." Cynthia said matter-of-factly, "The snow's half melted now, so we'll take him out to get anything he needs in a few days."

Alfred frowned slightly, looking to the tree to keep himself from saying anything. Great, he'd get to spend half a year with the very Englishman he'd spent four years hating. Even worse, he'd get to spend half a year with the very Englishman he had really inappropriate thoughts about. That was like dangling the forbidden fruit in front of Eve.

This was not going to be a good semester.

* * *

At exactly 11:11PM that night, Alfred and Cynthia were greeted to the sound of unsure footsteps making their way down the stairs. Some annoying American Christmas sitcom was blaring on the tv, making it almost hard to realize someone was coming down the stairs until a head of blood-red hair appeared in the doorway. It took Alfred a minute to realize him, with Matthew's clothes on. A pair of plain blue jeans and a white shirt, which was opposite compared to the normal black outfits he went for. Not to mention the copious amount of piercings in his ears weren't there-Alfred would take a guess in saying they'd gotten infected or something because they looked slightly pink. The only piercing left on him was on his tongue and one in his ear, which was hidden by hair. So other than the bruises on his face, and the blood-red hair-Arthur looked surprisingly normal. Wheat blond roots were beginning to streak the red now, which took Alfred off guard.

" 'Ello," The Englishman greeted in an uncertain tone, staying in the doorway until Cynthia motioned for him to come sit between she and Alfred on the couch. He walked over slowly, bare feet sliding against the carpet as he lowered himself onto the soft cushions between the two blue-eyed people.

"Hey, Arthur! Are ya feeling any better?" The sweet southern lady asked, gingerly reaching out to ruffle the other's hair in an oddly mother-like affection.

"Yes ma'am, very." The Englishman replied almost immediately, nodding and looking to the tv for something to try and get the spotlight off himself. Alfred wondered for a minute why he'd come down at all if not to talk, but he supposed if he'd been sick for a few days and cooped up in a room, he'd want out too-even if he had to endure being around Alfred.

The three of them stopped talking for a while and just let the tv take their minds off things. The old grandfathers clock in the corner ticked away, nearing 12:00 slowly. The only light in the room other than the television was the Christmas tree, which was blaring off the lights almost painfully bright, all different colors polka dotting the walls. As the show ended, Cynthia tiredly rose to her feet and yawned, stretching her arms high over her heads. "Well, kids, I think I'm going to bed for the night." She declared, the bunny slippers covering her feet padding softly down the hall, soon followed by the closing of a door. And suddenly the two teens were alone, Alfred fidgeting uncomfortably, accidentally slipping a few inches closer. Arthur seemed not to notice for a moment, then he glanced over.

"You look different." Alfred blurted out on the spot in an attempt to hide the fact he'd been staring. In reply, Arthur quirked up one of his thick eyebrows. "I mean, like, without all the black and the piercings. You look a little more normal."

"Normal is the last thing I'd want to be considered to be." Arthur replied to him, no potential vigor or agitation in his voice.

"You know what I mean."

"Yeah… I'll put the earrings back in eventually, being stuck in a closet for two days means not getting to keep them clean… They need a day." Arthur's hand rose up at the mention of the piercings, rough fingertips grazing over the barely-there holes. He'd thought about gauging his ears, although he was glad he hadn't now-they never looked like the most attractive things without the earring in.

"Nah, keep 'em out… You can be as unnormal as you wanna be without them. It looks better."

"Is the super-straight Alfred F. Jones giving me fashion tips?" Arthur retorted with a little harmless role of the eyes, crossing his arms over his chest. It was hard to hate a face like that, especially the face that he'd looked up to for an hour as he was carried back through the snow. Stupid-ass move or not, Alfred  _had_ had the best intentions for the shorter.

Alfred's mouth opened to reply, only for them to be cut off by the loud dinging of the grandfather clock. They both looked over to the large masterpiece, seeing the little hand point to the 12. For a moment they were both completely silent, the commercials of some tupperware containers still blaring in the background. Alfred felt suddenly tired, although all he'd done with his day was sleep. He looked back to Arthur after a while of baby blue eyes lingering on the clock, only to find a pair of emerald hues already on him.

"Merry Christmas, Alfred…" Arthur breathed out, Alfred quickly becoming increasingly aware of the fact that their heads were only a foot or so away.

"Merry C'mas, Arthur." He responded in a quieter tone than he would of liked, for some reason the not-as-mean-as-usual look he was getting made his breath escape his lungs. He'd always secretly had a thing for the color green-even though it wasn't patriotic. But the emerald green, specked with things as dark as browns and also as light as golds near the iris' were breathtaking. Not to mention the spark in them, the life, the fight. Arthur's eyes were breathtaking, and that was something totally not-homo at all-right? Alfred's eyes shifted just a bit as the Englishman leaned his body in just half an inch, head tilting up a bit more. His eyes were now on the shorter's lips, lingering there for a moment before looking back up. He bit his own lip, more of a nervous habit than anything else. He could feel hot air breathed out from Arthur's lips reaching his own, brushing over his cheeks and chin. For some reason, it was exciting to know he was close enough for air that had graced Arthur's lips to reach his. The two boys both leaned in a bit more, to the point where Alfred could swear he felt the tips of their noses brushing. His hand moved up, calloused fingertips brushing across his bruised cheek as gently as he could managed. Tilting his head just a bit more, Alfred's eyes fell half shut. And then it hit him like a falling piano; what they were doing. So he pulled away, abruptly.

Arthur seemed to realize what they'd almost done the second Alfred had, sitting back as the two's cheeks flushed a deeper shade than the red that decorated half the room. The boy with the bruised face pulled a hand up to his lips to cough a few times, using the 'I'm sick' card to get away with the bright flush. Alfred, on the other hand, pretended to stare eagerly at the door until the color died down. Simultaneously, they both muttered out an apology, eyes remaining on opposite sides of the room.

"Never happened?" Alfred muttered.

"Never happened." Arthur confirmed.

* * *

**Author's Note:** AHHHH I'm here I'm here I'm here I promise! We're nearing the end of the school year and all, so I've been booked with tests! Not to mention, right in the middle of it we just had Spring Break, and my family and I flew internationally over to Rome, so I was the one that organized about half of it! ;-; I'm sorry, I've gotten a lot of questions as to if I am going to continue. Which, I promise, I am. I've had some of my favorite authors quit a fan fiction and it  _breaks_ me, so I promise I won't do the same, no matter how long I take!

This is a shorter chapter, I'm trying to space everything out! I've got a  _big_ plan for the end, but I don't want to be rushing anything! I'm really bad at timing and all, so I'm sorry! Anyways, as I said, the end of the school's nearing so posts will be slow, but I swear to god, I won't abandon this-even if I end up finishing it in the summer!

Please comment, like, whatever for this! Tell your friends, do whatever! ^_^ I hope you enjoy, sorry if this chapters a bit slow!


	7. Hateful Tongue Action and Goodbyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Graduation is finally around the corner! While walking down the aisle is no biggie, there is a graduates-only party the last night Arthur's in town. Drama ensures, and so does some hot making out!

**Author's Note:**  I'm back, yayayay! Enjoy guys! Comment!

**Chapter 7**

**Hateful Tongue Action and Goodbyes**

The first few weeks of Arthur living in their home had been weird. Alfred would never forget the times he'd walked around the house 99% naked at four in the morning to get water, only to find Arthur already in the kitchen. Man, what a horror. But after a while they fell into a groove, and it seemed that the anger Arthur had for Alfred seemed to dissipate with time. No more apologies were ever spoken, none needed to be. When the school saw the duo walking to school together, it became somewhat clear that they'd made up. Plus, there was something fun about having someone that was like the brother he'd never have suddenly living in his home. Not to mention, Cynthia had secretly bought the punk an entire wardrobe-almost none of it black. So, the Brit didn't have much of an option but to wear normal and fitted blue jeans and a few lightly-colored band shirts.

The narrator won't bore you with the next five months of their life. January, February, March, April, and May sped by within a day. Especially with the fact Alfred finally grew a pair and told his friends to back down from Arthur, the two were practically inseparable. Elizabeta was probably the last one to forgive the American, she'd taken months of glaring at him from across the hall before Arthur had to tell her to lighten up. And there they were, the beginning of June. Their last day was on the fifth, and as of the moment they were swamped with end-of-year exams. It quickly became evident who was better in their classes, Arthur spent countless nights staying up with Alfred until midnight, helping the other study for his classes. There was one thing that didn't change though, it was the fact that Alfred was dead set on staying a heterosexual. No joke, Arthur had given Alfred  _plenty_ of opportunities, like walking into his room at two in the morning in boxers. Of course, he'd make up some shit reason for it like he needed help with homework. But really, how could he be any more appetizing? Arthur finally concluded that despite the fact they'd almost kissed on Christmas, the blue eyed male really didn't want anything to do with him in that sense.

As of the moment it was too early for anyone with a desire to have a lazy life to be awake, and the two were heading to school, conversing about anything and everything.

"Why don't you go to the dance, Arthur? C'mon man, it's the  _celebration_ _dance_ , the one last dance of high school, your last chance to get to witness American culture!" Alfred prompted with a little frown. "I don't wanna go either, but Liz asked so like-why not?"

"Because dances are society's way of weeding out those who are popular and those who are not. And I have no desire to get there and be ignored." Arthur replied, running a hand through his more-blond-than-red hair.

"You're no fun at all, Art… Come on, some girl out there wants to go but no one's asked her. Make her day."

Arthur shrugged his shoulder, rolling his eyes simultaneously. "I don't have a suit…" He grumbled finally, in a tone that made Alfred wonder if that'd been the whole reason he didn't want to go in the first place.

"Oh hell Arthur, we can find you a suit!" Alfred replied, not receiving much of an answer from the shorter. It was seriously hard for Arthur to act like the cute little rebel punk he was when Alfred was such a funny person to be around.

The two walked up to the grand school building, something that ensured eight hours of sitting down in a painfully boring class. Liz ran up to the both of them, her cheerleading uniform as tight and as not-school-appropriate as it always was. "Hey guys! So, you excited to like, finally get out of the hellhole that has been our forced home for the past four years?" She rambled, chocolate colored hair bouncing slightly as she tilted her head. Both boys chuckled in response.

"Yeah, pretty ready to escape this hell hole." Alfred responded, one hand moving to unzip the bombers jacket that seemed to be sown to his body. Arthur tended to stay quiet for the fifty times she asked the same question a day, usually because quitting school meant him going back to England, and Alfred always looked somber or off put whenever he mentioned it.

"By the way, Arthur, who are you going to the dance with?" The Hungarian teenager asked out of the blue as the three continued on their way to the front of the school building. The Englishman let out a nervous chuckle, shrugging his shoulders.

"I dunno if I'm going to go, to be honest." He replied simply, earning a light smack on the back of the head.

"Oh, nonsense! C'mon silly, it's the last time you can embarrass yourself here. I heard Gwen's still looking for someone to take her to the dance!"

Arthur tried not to make a face at the mention of the other girl. She'd been one of those people who had hated Arthur until Alfred thought he was alright, then she'd flip flopped and started saying Arthur was 'way hot'. Yeah, way hot his ass. "I'll think about it…" He muttered quietly, trying to end the conversation as quickly as possible. He kicked a stone as they passed the sad attempt for a garden, wilted flowers that were out of season with mulch that cracked when you stepped on it.

And hence, the jock and the punk went along their daily routines, through first, second, and third period. Then to lunch, then to fourth. Just like always, at lunch they'd meet up near the trash can Alfred used to push Arthur into, and they'd find some secluded area outside where they could bitch and moan about teachers until they were red in the face. Then they'd go home, eat, bathe, study, sleep, repeat. They were inseparable, yet at the same time neither of them would admit it. They were like those fan fictions you read late at night, the glare of your phone making your eyes sting. So wrong that they go against your morals, yet undeniable.

* * *

Monday turned to Tuesday, Tuesday to Wednesday, and Wednesday to Thursday. The inseparable duo were finally escaping from their next to last day of school. Alfred was practically having to drag Arthur, who'd had three final exams back to back and looked as if his soul had been sucked out of him. "Come on man, one more day." Alfred said with a joyous grin as he watched his friend walk a few steps behind, eyes trained on the cracked concrete.

"Ugh… Bloody hell. I give up, I give up on my future." He muttered, thankful for the patches of shade granted as they stepped beneath a series of trees. Up ahead was the football field, where Alfred was headed to receive some sort of medal for being such an asset to all of the games. Although the American had assured it was no big deal, based on the talk from other students a very few amount of people actually got the awards that had the American's name on them. So, of course Arthur had insisted on going.

The partial redhead plopped down on the bleachers with an exasperated sigh, laying back and stretching out. "Really Kirkland, you can head home. This is going to be a lot of boring talk about responsibility in the real world." The American said, standing at the base of the bleachers and looking up to all the people who were sitting perched on the metal stairs.

Arthur shook his head, a hand moving up to twirl around the piercing in his tongue, before moving to do the same to the one in the cartilage of his ear. "Nah, I don't mind. More time spent here is less time I have to study for Physics tomorrow." He mused, sitting up. Alfred seemed to be on the verge of saying something, until his name was called from the coach standing on the opposite side of the field. He gave a sheepish half-assed salute, before jogging off to go line up with the three others who'd worked their hardest in the past season. The Englishman sat upright, tensing slightly as he heard a voice behind him. His head whipped around to see a woman, long blond hair curling and cupping her cheeks. Her face seemed to be sculpted from the gods, long and thick eyelashes cast shadows down over carved-from-gold cheekbones. And this was coming from a gay guy.

"Francine… Yes?" The punk said more than asked. He remembered her, the girl that every guy in the school went for but never got to. Apparently she thought she was too good for everyone, never let a man lay a hand on her. Even he could see why she was desirable, a body that had more curves than winding up a mountain and a French accent that was to die for. Or so, Arthur'd heard every other hormonal teenage guy say.

"Oui! It's nice to finally get to talk to 'ou, 'ou have been the talk of the school recently." She said with a little smile, dexterous fingers twirling a piece of her hair around.

"Me? The talk of the school? That's funny." Arthur said dryly, although he was smiling. He turned around so he was facing her, the sun beating down on his back through The Beatles t-shirt he was wearing.

"Oui, the cute little not-so-punk-anymore-but-still-punk Arthur Kirkland. 'Ou rose up from the biggest loser to the top ten most desired in ze school." The French teenager said in a quiet, attractive tone. Arthur snorted, running a hand through his hair to comb it out of his eyes.

"Glad to hear my evil plan to steal the ladies hearts has been working." He replied in a joking tone.

"It's been working. 'Ou are gay, are 'ou not?" Francine said bluntly, something everyone seemed to pretend didn't exist. It even caught Arthur off guard for a moment, before he nodded.

"Yep love, 100% as straight as a circle."

"Would 'ou like to accompany me to ze dance, Arthur?" The French lady asked suddenly. "As friends, of course. All of the other men 'ere want to feel me up. I'd love to go, just not with them." For a moment Francine sounded more human at that point than she ever had. Maybe it was because Arthur hadn't talked to her often, but all he'd ever heard about her was she was too good for everyone. He'd never considered the possibility she just didn't want to be with anyone. But at the same time, the end of her sentence dropped dangerously, enchantingly. It sounded like the way women in movies asked men to sleep with them.

"That sounds lovely to me, doll. Everyone here wants  _me_  to feel  _them_ up, so I'm glad we have an understanding." Arthur said with a little grin, earning a laugh. He watched as the golden ringlets of curls spilled over her shoulders, eyelashes batting. He couldn't help but feel like at least a bit of her story was fake, she certainly had scooted closer and lowered her shirt just a bit. The Englishman cleared his throat, glancing out to the field. He hadn't picked the best seats, he could barely hear what was being said. Alfred seemed as bored as hell though, shoulders slumped as he listened to the never ending mantra. Arthur turned back to her, smiling. "So… I can pick you up at eight?"

"Magnifique~ See 'ou then, Arthur." She said, rising to her feet. Arthur noticed the high heels that accompanied a short skirt and a jean jacket over a tank top. An odd choice in dress, but then again, Arthur wasn't any good at determining outfits. He watched as she made her way down the uneven steps, wondering how in the world someone could wear such high heels on such gross and old bleachers. His eyes followed her until she was out of sight, then he sighed and slumped down. At least Alfred would be pleased with his choice, probably. Had it been up to Arthur, he would of stayed home and played Black Ops with Alfred in their underwear.

But if it was going to be his last night in America, he might as well go out with a bang. And oh, was he going to be going out with something.

* * *

Friday night approached like wild fire, catching on to everything and making everyone go crazy. Girls were looking for the perfect dress, guys asking their parents if they could stay in a motel for the night so he could lay his lady. This wasn't a prom, more of a going away party-that didn't make it any less essential for people to show how popular they were. It wasn't even funded by the school, some rich-ass kid had rented out part of a big center. Meaning, there'd most likely be a surprise alcohol visit by the alcohol fairy. Alfred and Arthur had gone last minute shopping to find a suiting tux for the Englishman, which proved to be difficult considering neither of the two had an abundance of money. Finally though, eight o'clock rolled around and Arthur was using Cynthia's car to pick up Francine. Bless the older lady's heart, she treated Arthur like he was her son.

The Englishman rolled up in the four-door, black car. It wasn't particularly nice, but not the worst looking thing either. Alfred had taken his car to get Liz by that point. Walking up to the door, the punk used his spare hand to tug at the collar of the white button up, which felt like it was choking him. He'd abandoned the tie in the car, and was already unbuttoning the top three buttons to give his throat a bit more breathing room. He knocked once, twice, three times quickly before his hand dropped to his side, and he waited. Most guys were nervous right about now, picking up a girl they may like. But he was oddly calm, looking around the nice porch as he waited. He wasn't quite sure how Francine viewed it, but he honest to god just wanted to go hang out and drink some punch with Alfred and Liz.

The door swung open half a minute later, a woman standing there. It took Arthur a few seconds to realize that it was no woman, rather Francine. With heavier make up on and the sleek blue dress that hugged her figure, she looked to be in her twenties. Not to mention the slit that came up to upper thigh, something that had Arthur been straight, he would of appreciated. "Wow, you look lovely." He complimented, smiling faintly. Her hair was all pulled back into a professionally done bun, a few shorter strands loose and falling down in front of her eyes, which were their normal bright, enchanting color.

"Merci, Arthur~" She cooed in her normal sweet-as-honey tone, reaching out and slipping her arm through his. "Shall we go?"

"We shall." Arthur replied, closing the door of the house for her. "Do I need to do the whole scared-date thing to your parents?" He asked, earning a playful giggle in reply.

"Non, they're taking this night to go out on a date. 'Ou're in the clear." She said as they walked to the car.

Arthur pretended to wipe sweat off his forehead with a grin. "Whooh, good, I'm not splendid with parents."

The two got in the car, creating small chit chat about nothing in particular as they made their way to the center they had rented out. Arthur didn't have a flying fuck where it was of course, so they got lost half a dozen times, each time he'd apologize profusely as they came to a dead end. Along the ride though, there was one thing evident. Francine didn't seem to mind he was gay, she went on with flirting and making not-appropriate eye contact. Pulling up to the center finally was a relief, Arthur tugged at the collar of his shirt as he hopped out of the car, looking around. The parking lot was nearly full, he had already dropped his 'date' off at the front so she wouldn't have to walk.

Arthur took his merry time entering the building, appreciating the long, drawn out front lawn. It was nicely decorated, with little lights sticking out of the cobblestone ground to light his way to the entrance. A few people sat on the grass and conversed, red solo cups already in their hands. That could only mean the alcohol was there. Great. Arthur + Alcohol = waking up the next morning not remembering why you were in a strangers bed. Literally.

Entering the double doors, Arthur got a good feel of what a club would look like. Sure, people were dressed up a lot nicer, dresses were being twirled around the dance floor and men were giving not-quite-yet-bedroom eyes. Others were dancing too, although they were dancing close enough to be having sex. Hell, if the music stopped you'd probably be able to hear they  _were_ having sex. The Englishman stood there awkwardly for a good long minute before Francine found her way over. She was just handing off an empty shot glass to a passing waiter-dressed man, grinning. "Dance with moi, Arthur." She said in a close-to-commanding tone. The Englishman didn't have much of a choice as he offered out a hand, beginning to sway along with the music.

His eyes were on the dance floor, looking around. Yesterday, he'd been excited to tell Alfred about Francine. But the second he had, the American hadn't been as happy as he should have. "By 'ask some girl that wants to go', I didn't mean her!" He'd said in an angry tone, "I meant someone who doesn't want to get in your pants!" Of course, they'd had a whole little argument over it, thankfully though it was just angry babble, and they still ended up hanging out and playing video games in their underwear that night. It didn't change the fact Alfred was peeved off about Francine, Arthur could tell when he finally caught Alfred's glare. The American seemed happy for a moment, Liz attached to his torso as they swayed. Then he saw the French lady on the Englishman, and he turned his head away with an angry huff. ' _Bloody great Arthur. Gonna piss off your one friend on the last night you're here.'_ The two foreigners swayed back and forth slowly, Arthur doing his best to keep at least three inches away from her. Yet, she kept stepping closer every time he stepped back, keeping her chest pressed against his. Of course, that didn't help every time Alfred glanced over.

The next two hours were a blur of dancing and grinding. Francine didn't seem to care that Arthur didn't return the favor of pressing their bodies together, she just went all for it herself, swaying back and forth as she rolled her hips into Arthur's whenever the music beat permitted it. After close to two hours of the motion, though, the French lady gave out a soft huff-probably of defeat. It wasn't difficult to feel that the Englishman was not reacting to her in the slightest. As the slow song's tune slowly drifted off to a stop, they stepped away. Arthur was surprised to hear a loud, oh-so American tone right near him. "Well, ladies and gentlemen. I hope I'm not interrupting or anything…" Growled Alfred, who sounded like his soul goal had been to interrupt them. "But I'd love to bother Arthur for a drink. It is his last day here, and all."

Francine had already disappeared, her eyes on another boy. Apparently she'd realized Arthur was the gayest gay to ever gay the rainbow sea. Alfred grabbed his friend by the arm and pulled him outside. As soon as the cool wind greeted them and the smell of must and perfume faded, he got a whiff of alcohol on the American's voice. "Awh, you've been drinking without me." Pouted Arthur with a hint of a smile, accepting a beer with a mutter of a thanks. The American didn't look so happy as he twisted off the cap to his own and chugged down half of it, little rivets of the light brown liquid seeping out of the corners of his lips. It seemed like mere seconds before the American tossed away an empty bottle onto the crisp grass, rolling down the slight sloping hill and knocking into others. There was a momentary choir of glass hitting glass.

Arthur smiled, until he saw his friend look over to him with a bit of a frown. Sipping at his beer slowly, Arthur raised a thick eyebrow. "I said take a girl to the dance who had no one else to go with, Arthur," seethed a  _very_ intoxicated Alfred. "Not get laid on the dance floor." The Englishman's lips parted slightly in a confused look, biting down on his tongue. The little stud in the tip of it gleamed in the moonlight that hung directly above them.

"I didn't think you'd care this much,  _love_." Muttered Arthur in reply, walking slowly across the grass with Alfred. He listened to the sound of the snapping twigs beneath their feet, glancing to either side of him to see flowers sprouting from the ground.

"Oh, because you  _wanted_  her to try to fuck you on the dance floor. That's sure as hell what it looked like." Alfred grabbed Arthur's beer from his hand, downing a good amount of it as the Englishman made a few sounds of protest from his lost beverage.

"You're making this into a big deal, Alfred, and it's not a big deal."

"Damn it, Arthur! This is your last night in America, I wanted to hang out with you-not have some girl moaning in your ear all night!"

"Then you shouldn't of pushed me to get a date, Jones. We could of just showed up and hung out."

"Oh, you know I couldn't show up with you alone! People would of thought that we were both f-" Alfred stopped himself. Arthur quirked up an eyebrow, nose twitching as he spared a glance over to him.

"That we were both what?  _Faggots?_ " sneered Arthur. He stopped walking, turning to look around, before shooting daggers at Alfred. The building that the party had been in was one big square. He could still see the elaborate entrance to the building, where the smell of lust poured from its open doors. Dozens of people were laying out on the grass with their dates, some people making out, and some just admiring the star-spotted sky. Alfred glared right back, crossing his arms over his chest.

"You know that's not what I meant," he snapped, "you know what I think? I think you  _leap_ for every chance to make me seem like the bad guy. I  _wanted_  you here, I wanted to hang out with you."

"You just didn't want people to think we were  _faggots_ , because of course, that would so  _ruin_ lil' Jones' reputation. And we can't have that, can we?" Arthur rolled his eyes, taking a little step closer. "And guess what, you kind of  _are_ the bad guy here. I don't know if you recall the last  _four years of our lives_ , where you kind of beat me into the ground."

"Fuck! Arthur, fuck! I've apologized, haven't I!? You can't pin that on me for forever!"

"No, just for four more years."

Alfred, with a huff of exceedingly bad-smelling breath, unfolded his arms and lightly placed his hands on Arthur's chest, pushing him back a foot or so in the way that only white boys started fights. "Oh yeah? I might as well make it four years and a day, because you're really pissing me off right now."

Arthur pushed back, harder. He placed his hands on the American's black-clad chest and  _shoved_ , having to use most of his strength to move the monstrous American. Don't get him wrong, Arthur was only an inch or so shorter, but he hadn't spent four years growing muscle with football either. "I'd like to see you try, you drunken son of a bloody bitch." Alfred shoved again, then Arthur. Each time they both had to step back and regain their balance.

Alfred was the first to make a move. He reared his fist back before slamming it forward into Arthur's cheek. A loud, piercing yelp of pain sounded, and half a dozen people looked over to the two. Arthur didn't miss a beat, though. He stumbled to regain balance, taking a step forward and slamming a fist back on the blond's jaw. Maybe it was because of the increased level of alcohol, but Alfred almost fell over with the hit alone.

By this time, people were starting to gather. People whipped out their phones, pointing their video camera's directly at them. Half of the people cheered for Alfred, as they had for the past four years. But some cheered for Arthur too, and that gave the Englishman a fire in the pit of his belly he'd never had before. Alfred ran forward after a moment and tackled the younger, slamming his shoulder and back onto the concrete. Arthur coughed dryly and attempted to regain his breath as he felt another fist on his cheek, and another, and another. He threw his hands up in front of himself to try to protect his face, struggling under the weight of the football player. A few more small hits and Alfred started to recede, thinking Arthur had gone still enough to of been unconscious. But the Englishman just seized that as a chance to slam his kneecap into the American's crotch,  _hard._

A howl of agony rang around and Alfred stumbled back and away from the Englishman. He stayed down just long enough for Arthur to get back up to his feet. The shorter rubbed at his own nose, wiping away all the blood that flowed freely from it. He glanced around to all the people, watching their mouths move. They seemed to be shouting, but the blood pumping through his ears acted as a sufficient muffler. His heart felt like it was about to race out of his chest, and his legs shook slightly as he took a few weary steps back. Alfred stayed on the ground for a while longer, groaning inaudible things and holding his groin. He seemed to forget about the fight for just a moment, until he glanced back up and realized he was on camera. He slowly stumbled up to his feet, heat and pain flashing all over his body. Intoxicated and hazy blue eyes searched amongst the crowd for Arthur. He finally located the Brit, edging his way towards the corner of the building, a place probably laced with more nooks and crannies. He raced after him, all of the other teens taking slightly longer to catch up.

Alfred slammed Arthur against the brick wall that was just around the corner, one of his hands balling up in the collar of the man's suit, the other craning back and forming a fist. Alfred growled and ground his teeth, sneering dangerously. He could faintly hear the sound of feet as all the graduates raced to try to find the two fighting teens. He glanced around with dangerous, potent eyes.

Something slammed into Arthur's face. But it wasn't Alfred's fist, it was lips. Hot, angry, bleeding lips that tasted heavily of iron and anger. Alfred was kissing him, hotly. A tongue had already forced its way between Arthur's lips, and he completely ignored the loud groan that accompanied the sudden movement. Arthur's hands, which were holding onto the fist in his shirt, slid down and grasped onto the wall. He didn't need to bother keeping himself upright, because the American had him pinned there with two hundred pounds of muscle.

Alfred was drunk. So hella drunk, he didn't know or care if Arthur was kissing back. All he knew was that this was the  _only_ thing that got the blood flowing down south well enough. The only person he wanted to pound into a mattress, to hear moan and whine. And he was already halfway there, Arthur's tongue fought back valiantly as little sounds spilled from his bruised lips. His hands slid up and tangled in the American's hair, grabbing painfully tight as he yanked him forward. Alfred ground against him, and for the first time that night Arthur ground back, violently. The whole thing was a mix of pleasure and pain, their teeth clashed and Arthur's nails dug underneath the American's white button up, sinking deeply into the skin as he jutted their hips together. While Alfred kept one hand gripped in the material of his shirt, the other ran back and grabbed Arthur's ass, giving it a tight squeeze and growling low-toned, dirty things against his lips.

All too soon, they could hear footsteps approaching from around the corner. Alfred yanked back and kept his fist balled in the collar of Arthur's shirt. The Englishman seemed to be in a bit of daze for a moment longer, until his cheek was once more occupied by a fist. He coughed, spitting out a mouthful of thick, slimy blood that stuck to his lips. Camera phones trained on them again as he ducked under the second fist, having managed to yank away from the hand in his shirt. Arthur prayed that the darkness hid the bulge in his and Alfred's pants as he stepped forward. The noise of the world started back up, the scuffing of shoes against the concrete and the grunts of the two boys as they threw punches and kicks.

The whole fight ended with a knee to Alfred's stomach. Arthur recoiled once he was sure the American had fallen unconscious to the ground. Half the crowd cheered, half booed, but in the end all of them turned off their phones and wandered off. Arthur scoffed shakily, rubbing at his nose with a wince. "F-fucking vultures… Only want fun." He scoffed, looking around. After the flash of phones stopped, the only thing that lit up the night was the lamp post that poured a light-yellow colored light onto them. He bent his head to let blood drip from his lips, glancing to Alfred. The American was completely unconscious, smelling heavily of alcohol. That had most likely been one of the only reasons Arthur'd one, alcohol always gave the users opponent the upper hand. With a little huff, the Englishman slipped his arms under Alfred's armpits and dragged him a few feet to the grass. That took up what little energy he had left, before he shakily rest on the grass next to the American. He turned his head to look over to the man, whose lips were bruised from kissing and who's pants were still a bit tighter than they should of been. His chest rose and fell steadily though, a small dribble of blood running down the corner of his mouth.

"You're such an asshole…" Arthur muttered tiredly, rolling on his side and reaching out weakly to grip onto the football players hand, lacing their fingers loosely together before he fell into sleep.

* * *

It felt like years later before the green-eyed man felt consciousness slip back to him. The first thing he realized was that there was something heavy resting across his chest, and made it quite hard for him to move. His eyes fluttered open slowly, groaning and turning his head away from the light that poured down from the lamp post. It was still dark out, but when he strained his vision he could see the beginnings of a deep orange color pour over the rows of houses and trees. He turned his head again, glancing over. The first thing he realized was that the heavy thing on his chest was an arm. His eyes followed the black-suited arm, up to the mans shoulder, and finally face. ' _Alfred.'_  He thought tiredly, letting his head roll back onto the grass with a sigh. He looked up to the sky, frowning to himself as the stars disappeared slowly.

Finally, he rolled over to face the other, before sitting upright. His head was pounding, but he had a feeling it was from being slammed into a wall. He could of sworn he'd felt those lips before. The second that thought occurred to him, it bugged him. Alfred's lips felt known. They'd never kissed before. They'd come close, but they never had. Or at least, to Arthur's knowledge…

After another minute of sitting in the grass and trying to forget the pain that radiated throughout his body, he reached over to gently shake the others shoulder. "Alfred, Alfred… Get up." He muttered quietly, shoving at the football players shoulder weakly. There was a deep grumble of something incoherent, before hazy blue eyes slid open. He seemed to be even more disoriented than Arthur, looking around helplessly for a moment before he noticed the punk.

"Damn, another hour of sleep woulda been nice…" He grumbled tiredly, a hand reaching up to rub at his temples. He still smelled awfully of alcohol, and after sleeping half a foot away from him the whole night, Arthur was sure he did as well.

"The sun's coming up… We should probably head home, I need to be at the airport by eight."

Alfred blinked. Last night came snapped into his vision, and he sighed. Slowly, the both of them worked their way up to their feet, stumbling and using each other as canes to get upright. "Sorry 'bout your jaw." said Alfred finally.

"Sorry about your balls." Arthur replied, a hint of a smile working its way on his lips. The grin faded a moment later, considering the cut on the soft, rosy skin there hurt too much to be stretched.

The both of them spared a long, lingering look before they nodded-a confirmation that all was forgotten and in the past… Slowly, the two began to weave their way through the sleeping bodies in the grass. A few times, Arthur bent down to help pull a ladies dress down a bit further, to protect their upper thighs from being exposed as they slept. Finally they made it to the car, in which Alfred fumbled with his keys for a while before Arthur confiscated them. "You drank gallons, doll, let me drive." He said simply. The blue eyed man slipped into the passengers side without a single complaint, letting his head rest against the back of the seat as Arthur started up the car and they were off. He suddenly realized he'd left Francine, and made a mental note to later text Liz to make sure she found a ride home. He realized in that moment as well that he'd just left Mrs. Jones' car there, chuckling to himself with a hint of regret. Oh well. It was his last few hours in America, and he didn't want to spend it calling a less-drunk friend to drive it home.

The next hour was a daze. Arthur packed the few belongings he had into a roller suit case and changed out of his suit. He grabbed a shower to wash off the smell of booze after Alfred had, changing into a pair of black, slim-fit jeans and a plain white t-shirt. He slid on Van's that were blue and red, with little British and American flags decorating each side. After cleaning all his piercings out carefully and after insuring his backpack had a book and his phone in it, he headed downstairs to the car. It took effort and serious skill to juggle the donut and coffee in his hand, and get the trunk open as well. But he managed, and used his hip to nudge all of his luggage into the space, before reaching up and slamming the trunk down.

"Mind if I drive you instead of my mom?"

Arthur jumped half a foot into the air at the voice. He'd not been expecting someone behind him. Whipping around his head, he saw a tired looking Alfred with a cup of coffee in his hand the size of Texas. After returning from his momentary panic, he shook his head. "Not at all… Are you still drunk?"

"Hangover. Took half a bottle of ibuprofen, I'll be okay."

Arthur wouldn't complain with a free car ride, nor getting to look at the gorgeously sculpted face of Alfred one last time. Granted, his jaw was spotted with two bruises and he had a cut or two on his lip; but it was the same breathtaking smile and piercing eyes. He needed at least a little more time with American beauty.

* * *

The ride to the airport was quiet, contrasted to what Arthur thought. He'd had some idea in his head that they'd spill their guts to one another, and make out hotly in the parking lot. But that didn't happen. Alfred kept his hands on 10 and 2, and his eyes didn't once veer from the road. Arthur understood the determined gleam in his eyes, especially after the accident. The only attempt at conversation was held as they both waded through the beginning crowd of people. In the airport it smelled thickly of coffee and some neutralizer-spray that they doused the place in, in an attempt to keep it from smelling so hideously American. Alfred asked the saddening question of, "Are you ready to go back to England?"

Mentally, the football player prayed that Arthur would say no, he'd say that he wanted to stay here and help Alfred become famous-because surely, he would one day. But all the Englishman replied with was, "Yes." This was followed by a five minute silence, in which they went from terminal to terminal, Alfred sort of following along like a lost little puppy at this point, not willing to let go of his owner. They stepped onto an underground trolly, Arthur holding onto his rollarbag with one hand, and the strap of his book bag with another. He turned around to Alfred suddenly. "Good luck, in the future I mean. I take it you're still going off to Hollywood?" questioned the green-eyed teen, remembering an earlier conversation.

Alfred gave his attempt at a large, goofy smile, and he nodded. "Hell yeah! The next time you'll be seeing my face, it'll be on the cover of the tabloids! I'm gonna be famous, and you'd better believe it!" The two of them laughed, just as the train dinged and they hopped off. Arthur's never liked the sounds of airports. Of overly powerful men and women's shoes echoing off the tiled floors, of the sound of crying children. They slowly walked to Arthur's gate, the glowing 'E' that slowly approached meant that Alfred could continue no further.

"You'd better keep that promise. I look forward to hearing all about you, Alfred F. Jones." The security guards gave the two of them a look as they approached the gate, as if analyzing the fact Alfred didn't have a bag. (Probably not to mention the fact that their faces were covered in bruises.) People continued to push by them, nudging their shoulders accidentally as they hurried on their way. Arthur glanced back, seeing his gate five feet away. Five feet further that way and he'd be gone-no turning back… Arthur looked to Alfred once more, his smile fading.

"Damn right you will… Damn right…" Alfred cleared his throat and looked away, eyebrows turning up slightly despite his best efforts to not look upset. Arthur wanted to stay, to converse, to share all of his emotions. But that would drain him, ruin him, and he couldn't tell Alfred all of these things now.

"Goodbye, Alfred."

With that, Arthur turned away and began to walk. Quickly, one step, two steps, three steps. He bowed his head down and rifled in his pocket for his passport, sniffing once as he ground the palm of his free hand into his eye. Tears. Damn it. Why tears now? He reached out to offer the security man his passport, before his arm was being grabbed and he was yanked back. Before Arthur had a second to question Alfred's motive, he felt lips pressed to his own. Not rough like last night, and not tasting of alcohol. Soft, sweet, kind lips that molded to his and urged him to lean in closer. While one arm wrapped around the Englishman's waist, the other hand moved up to cup his non-injured cheek, pulling Arthur into one of the most loving embraces he'd ever felt. Alfred sighed against his lips, releasing a breath he'd held in for four years. Nothing around them mattered, not the people, not the sounds, and not the fact that it would all be gone in mere seconds.

Of course, people all around made disgusted faces and pushed by. The nicer ones just made little sounds like 'aww' before hurrying through. Arthur didn't care if they saw. And for once in his life-neither did Alfred. He savored the flavor of Arthur's lips, the way their bodies didn't quite fit together like his and some petite girls did, but the way they found a way to fit.

Finally Arthur pulled away. He did so reluctantly, a small string of saliva snapping between them. Sapphire locked on to emerald. For a second longer, just a second, they enjoyed each others company. And then Arthur slipped out of his grasp. His eyes welled with more water as he let out a throaty chuckle, his hand sliding up to graze over the American's cheek. "I'll miss you too." He muttered, rubbing at his eyes before he turned around and took the final step through the gate.

And Alfred was left there, staring after the dissipating silhouette of the man that only at that moment, he realized he loved.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Hello everyone! I'm sorry I took so long on this, as you've all heard before-it's finals season and I've been studying my ass off. In actuality, I have my biggest final tomorrow-but school's fried my brain to the point where I don't even give a fuck anymore, so instead of studying I spent four hours finishing this chapter.

**This Fanfiction is NOT DONE! I know it seems that way, but like I said in the first chapter, I'm basing this off of a RP I did with a friend. It'll continue with a pretty big time skip. So don't worry friends, the fun will go on for many more chapters, and I can also promise that from here on out there'll be more smutty, dirty, kinky goodness between people.** I'd also like to point out there will probably be more than UsUk though, so if you can't handle the fact that people in real life tend to have more than one person they sleep with, sorry bro but you're gonna have to deal.

It'd be really nice if you'd comment! I spend  _hours_  working on these chapters, and I would be very thankful if you'd take five seconds to send something that'll let me know what you thought! If you have any critiques, feel free to send them! If ya wanna flame I'm actually pretty cool with it but be prepared because I will curse your ass out to the point where you'll curl up in a corner and ball your eyes out. Be warned. (I'd prefer not to be flamed, if at all possible bros.) But PLEASEEE! Send a comment if you have the time! I love to hear anything you have to say!


	8. Childish Behavior and Dreaded Emotions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Six years have passed since the two have met up, and when they finally run head-first into each other again, their reunion is anything but expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: Welcome back! It's getting hella crazy from here on, so strap in and enjoy the ride! As a quick side note, when Arthur graduated high school he was 18, and Alfred was 17! (Just in case you want to do the math on their ages.)
> 
> Also, for this chapter I'm giving it an interesting little turn! As much as I loved doing the gauken, high-school setting-what fan fiction is complete with just that? So as you'll read on, there's another element to it! I recently stumbled upon the best doujinshi that exists, called Burlesque. If you haven't read it and you want to, just leave a comment down below and I'll give you the link! Anyways, there's a few elements in that doujin that I'm going to include in this Fanfic! I'll try to keep it as different as possible, but there's one or two scenes in there that are similar!
> 
> And one last thing! In real life, people don't just get together with the one person they're destined to be with, normally. There is some FrUk in this, sorry, y'all gonna have to deal. Realism is important to me in my stories. Alfred and Arthur'll get together on their own time.

**Chapter 8**

**Childish Behavior and Dreaded Emotions**

There were two things in life Arthur had known for certain the second he set foot in America. One, he  _would_  prove his father wrong and become an artist. The man always used to say he'd 'never amount to anything' or he'd 'be selling ketchup paintings on the streets'. And two, he'd  _never_  go  _back_  to America. However, only one of those actually came out the way he planned it to.

Six years came and went since the day Alfred got to watch Arthur slip through his grasps in the air port. Six years of each of them slowly straying away from one another. The text messages flowed for a while, but eventually they stopped. The phone calls stopped, the Skyping stopped. Arthur became too busy with college and Alfred became too busy 'being a superstar'. But on six years to the day that he left America, Arthur Kirkland was back. And he was better than ever.

The moon was already hung high over the streets of New York city as teenagers buzzed around the busy streets. Arthur walked around inside the large, square room with walls as white as a mental facility. Paintings hung on each and every wall, almost to the point where you couldn't see the paint at all. There was an entire section devoted to drawings. Messy, charcoaled drawings that had their own unique beauty to them. His eyes ran over each and every piece of art, almost as if he was critiquing him. In all actuality, he was still mildly amazed that they all held the signature 'Arthur Kirkland' at the bottom of them in sloppy blue paint. He looked up to the lights that hung from the ceiling, simple but elegant. They shed light on all of his masterpieces, his kids, the only things he cared for. A large smile spread on his lips as he turned around and picked up the last of the cardboard boxes, walking them back to the 'back' of the store, which was basically a smaller storage room that was hidden behind a black curtain. In the back of the large, extensive art gallery were stairs which were marked 'off limits' to all the customers.

The art gallery sure as hell beat living in Manchester, he had to admit. Although he'd loved his little shop back home, not nearly enough people stopped in. He'd barely been making enough money. Then some big, corporate CEO of some bank in America wandered in, and bought everything that hung on the walls. Not only that, but he offered Arthur the very shop he was standing in. He told the Brit his 'art was unlike any other'. Long story short, Arthur went from almost broke to a millionaire two weeks ago.

"Sir…? Sir, is there anything else I can do for you?" Arthur spun around on his heels, realizing one of the movers was standing in the middle of the white, glossed floors of the- of  _his_ art gallery. The Englishman didn't bother to suppress his smile.

"No, thank you very much for helping with everything." Arthur fished out his wallet and handed the man a hefty tip, knowing that his company probably only paid minimum wage for the grueling work. "Actually… There don't happen to be any..  _clubs_ , around here. Are there?" Arthur's tone lowered and his smile widened when he uttered 'club', as if to indicate exactly which type he was speaking of. The moving man looked caught off guard to say the least, but then laughed.

"There is, actually." He accepted the wad of cash with a wide grin, pocketing it. "One called 'The Tool Box'. It's on Fifth Street, all the way to the end. It's easy to miss, take the staircase up on the right side of the road and you'll find yourself there." While the mover didn't seem particularly interested in the fact he knew of such a place at all, he did seem happy to have pocketed what would be his families supper that night.

Arthur greedily accepted the information, then smiled. "Thanks so much. Have a great night." The two of them nodded at each other before the mover walked out the glass front door. The Englishman walked over to the stairs in the back of the gallery where the stairs marked 'off limits' were. He headed up two flights of them, fishing out a key from his pocket and opening the old, wooden door at the top. It fought him with valiance, the old hinges squeaking in protest as he used his shoulder to wedge it open. The door was horribly misleading to what lay behind it, with old brick walls and slick, wooden floors. The wall opposite him was made of entirely glass, it overlooked the parts of the city that he could see. In front were several white leather couches, with glass tables to each side of them. The light fixtures that hung from the ceiling were sculpted glass of every color. It twisted and curved in such artistic ways. The sight alone made Arthur smile. He was living the dream here.

The artist walked up yet another flight of stairs, but these were made of thick glass and they wound up around in a grand spiral, to the next level of the little apartment. He headed into a bedroom, looking to all the boxes of clothes and memories that he'd yet to unpack. Arthur changed out of his 'grunge clothes' and in to a nicer pair of slim-fit black jeans. Reaching for a belt, he slid it through the loops mindlessly, his eyes roaming along the vast amount of square footage that was just in his room. It was a major contrast, to say the least, from his old little apartment in England. He had to rifle through a box filled with underwear and socks to find a white button up. Slipping it on, he left the top four buttons undone and peeled aside the collars to the shirt, purposely showing off more skin than the shirt would originally.

After grabbing his wallet and phone, Arthur Kirkland skipped down the three flights of stairs it took to get down to his gallery. Flipping off the light switches as he went, he locked the front door to the expansive room, taking a few steps into the street and turning back to look at it. Even with the lights turned off, the art had its own way of showing off. Patting the handle to the door like a father would to his child, Arthur spun around on his heels and headed off into the growing dark...

New York was a lovely place, Arthur had learned. Compared down his four-year stay down in the South all that time ago, being gay was widely accepted. Or at least, if you were new to the millionaire business and your face could be compared to that of a China doll - people didn't seem to care. The city, at night, was what one would call intimate. All of the innocence was sucked from it as the night came in to play. Clubs opened up, teenagers crawled out through fire escapes at their windows and met up with their significant others for a night on the town.

Half an hour of avoiding speeding cars nearly hitting him later, Arthur was climbing up the rickety, creaking iron steps in a back alley at the end of Fifth Street. He found it slightly humorous that clubs were clubs - England's and America's were practically identical. It didn't matter that in England everyone claimed to be more prestigious, and in America they claimed to be better. Regardless of country, they were in scary back alleys with shit lighting and a tall, overweight bouncer who eyed you like you were a rat and they were a hawk.

"ID, please." Said the hawk-man. Arthur handed it to him immediately, glancing over the taller mans shoulder to inside the club. Even through thick metal doors, it was easy to hear the music, it was even easier to feel the vibrations from it running up his legs. A moment later he was handed back all of the cards, and the man nodded. "Right this way, Mr. Kirkland."

Arthur had to admit, he was fond of the whole 'Mr. Kirkland' kind of thing. For the first few years as a starving artist, he'd been known as the 'overly annoying and pushy wannabe-artist' or the 'street rat'. But now he was 'Mr. Kirkland', because he had two million in the bank and counting. "Thanks." muttered Arthur, slipping in past the man without another word. The second the door was opened the music hit him like a wall, flowing through his veins. It was accompanied by almost violent vibrations, which shook his sight and hearing until he learned to get used to it. Inside was like heaven for the worst kinds of people. The lights were dimmed and the air was thick, people sat at tables and chairs as other people did ungodly things to them. Some men gambled, some received lap dances, some just sat there and put twenty dollar bills down the front of the 'waiters' pants, some smoked things that were surely illegal. All the attention was being poured up onto the three divided stages, each occupying a man or a woman dressed in as little clothing as humanly possible.

The Englishman smirked lightly as he waded through the crowd to get to the bar. Claiming one of the high-up barstools as his own, Arthur tapped his foot lightly against the wooden floor. His eyes kept getting caught on the people up on stage. Two women on the side stages and a man up in the middle one. Even with pastel lights shining down to accent how tan he was, Arthur couldn't see much beyond that. With a fedora on and tipped down to cover his eyes, the man on stage was just another handsome body. Just another person with chiseled abs and overall, a body sculpted from the gods. The Englishman turned back and ordered some kind of fruity alcoholic drink, not caring that it made him look 'gay'. He was what he drank.

"Some nice dancers tonight, huh?" Arthur muttered to the young-looking bartender on the opposite side of the counter. Turning his head to look away from the gorgeous form up on stage, he smiled lightly. The man behind the bar had dark red hair and more piercings and tattoos than there were people in New York.

"Eh? Yea, we're lucky to 'ave em here. The boy in the middle's new. Young lad, too bad e's already ended up 'ere." Arthur had to sort through the thick accent (Southern, French? Scottish? Who knew) to be able to understand him, so he just nodded and sipped at his drink. "They say once ya start workin' 'ere, ya never get out."

The song that the three were dancing to slowly wound down to a stop, and with a bow they all hopped off the stage and dispersed into the crowd of grabby-hands and greedy eyes. The Englishman sucked lightly on the piercing in the right corner of his bottom lip. It was one of two piercings that he hadn't gotten rid of. He'd taken out most of the ones in his ears, tongue, and nose. But the lip ring had stuck around. It created a sort of profile for him, everyone loved it. And people that kissed him said it was hot. "It is too bad…" It was to be expected, when people hit rock bottom and started working in places like this, they usually stayed. They got used to it, they enjoyed it even. Well, in Arthur's little black-and-white world, at least. "Say, what's the mans name? The one that was up in the middle?" Arthur questioned, turning to look to the tatted up bartender with a questioning eye.

"Er… Fred? Alphonse? Er… Something along those lines." The man chuckled sheepishly, seeming to be embarrassed. "'E is new, after all." Arthur inhaled the scent of booze and sex, glancing over to the hidden stair case that led even further up. Every so often, a couple would disappear up, which was followed by awfully loud banging sounds. Then they'd wander down a few minutes later and disperse into the crowd.

After finishing off the fruity drink and setting down a ten dollar bill on the counter, Arthur hopped off the stool and fought his way into the crowd of lustful people. One person made the mistake of trying to grab his ass, and he (quite loudly) called them as many nasty names as possible, slapped them, and continued on his way through the crowd. "First night back in America," he grumbled angrily as he stomped through the people, "and I'm getting bloody groped."

Another song started up on the overhead boom boxes and new dancers came out, although none of them caught Arthur's eye like the first man had. Where was he? Where was the tan-skinned, tall, gorgeous man? Arthur was mentally praying in the back of his head that whoever it was was gay, considering the bar wasn't strictly for men. He'd had a few 'accidents' like that, where he'd wandered in a club and tried to hit on a man. He'd earned enough black eyes to be careful with his flirting.

Wading through the crowd was a pain in the ass. People spared him second, longing looks and others stepped on his toes on accident. Arthur was just about to turn around and leave when he ran smack-dab into someones back. For a millisecond his chest was pressed against a mans shoulder blades, before he yanked back. "Oh, I'm so sorr-...  _Oh_ , 'ello love~" Arthur went from apologetic to amazed in a quarter of a second. Because within a second he got a full, lit-up view of the face of the dancer he'd been pining after. When the man turned around, he looked equally - if not more surprised. "Long time no see."

Because there stood Alfred F. Jones, in skin-tight leather pants and a black leather vest that remained opened and hanging off his shoulders. He still had a fedora on his head, casting shadows down over his shockingly bright eyes and soft honey blonde hair. The two men stared at each other in a mix of amazement and horror. Alfred, with more horror than amazement. Their eyes met and for the first time in six painfully long years, sapphire got to smash into emerald. The American's breath hitched. "A-Arthur… Holy fuck…" And then Alfred ran. And it wasn't a 'gotta go!' kind of run. It was like an 'escaping from hell with Satan on your heels' kind of run. Alfred Fucking Jones disappeared through the crowd faster than Arthur would of thought possible of a 200 pound sex monster. The Englishman stood there in shock for a moment, blinking at the outline of the American and the dust he'd kicked up by speeding off like a goddamn cartoon character.

"The  _FUCK_!?" Arthur roared, sounding much more like his old self than usual. But the stripper was gone. Gone, gone, gone. Arthur stood there in shock, jaw hanging open as his eyes remained peeled wide. He felt a hand on his shoulder, and turned around to see who it was. For the second time that night his eyes locked onto a pair of shocking blue ones, but this time they belonged to a slightly taller man with hair that fell down to his shoulders. "Francis? Bloody 'ell, what're you doing here, lad?" Arthur stated in disbelief. The Frenchman had gone to the same arts school as Arthur for a year and a half, before dropping out to go help with his sick mother. Francis and he had gotten into more trouble than thought possible. And they'd also broken more headboards on the cheap beds the school provided than any other student had. Three guesses as to how they put so many dents in the walls.

"I thought I heard an overly-annoying British tone, mon amour. It's magnifique to see 'ou as well." said Francis, ignoring Arthur's earlier statement. They both stared at each other in complete silence, until the Frenchman spoke. "I run this place! Have for three years now! What in gods name did 'ou say to our best dancer for 'im to take off like the devil was on his arse?"

"You run this place? Why am I not surprised…" Arthur rolled his eyes. "And you know Alfred…? He and I were, um, friends… We were friends in high school." The Englishman was still in shock from meeting up with the two blue-eyed beauties he never thought he'd see again. Two people that had left his life had returned inside of ten  _very_ crazy minutes. And in a strip club. What were the odds? Arthur had never believed in fate, but he'd be damned if this wasn't part of it.

" _Friends_ , mmh? Well I suppose 'ou couldn't be much more, the boy swears to god that he's straight."

"He  _still_  tries to pull that off?" Arthur sounded absolutely flabbergasted.

"Is 'e not?"

Arthur almost said 'no', but then paused. It wasn't fair of him to say anything to Alfred's name. The two times they'd kissed had been within twenty four hours of each other. And hormones were a bitch. "I haven't the faintest idea. He had his moments in school." The artist spared a few more longing looks around, as if the American would pop back and start making 'no homo' jokes to him. After a while he fished out his wallet, and handed Francis something. "That's my card… Would you mind giving it to the lad the next time you see him? Tell him to give me a call."

Francis didn't give as much as a second look to the little white slip of paper as he put it into his pocket, his attention immediately returning to Arthur. "I regret that we.. didn't leave each other on good terms, I suppose? We never really talked things out.."

"We fucked a lot, there wasn't too terribly much to 'talk out'. How's your grandmother?"

"She's dead."

"Oh… I'm sorry to hear it."

"Oui."

Arthur took a little step to the side to avoid getting a shot of something spilled on to him by a drunken lady, sparing her a nasty glare as he avoided stepping in the puddle of alcohol which began to sink between the floorboards. Francis sighed, muttering something about ruining his building as he ran a hand through his hair. The music was suddenly a bit too loud for Arthur's tastes, and he spared a glance to the Frenchman, and then to the door. Even after four and a half years of not seeing the man, he looked as good as better. More grown up. In college Francis had ditched all of his classes and focused on flirting. Now, even though he owned a pretty shady bar, looked like he'd finally grown up. His shoulders widened just a bit more and the stubble on his chin and cheeks was thicker. Arthur smiled flirtatiously, glancing to the door again. "Well, I've had enough of this place for one night." The artist decided suddenly, taking a few steps towards where the bouncer was located. The fresh, city air was already hitting him a bit more than before, and it was a relief. Francis looked immediately upset, but before he could say anything Arthur spoke again. "I'm heading home. And as long as you have condoms this time, you're  _more_ than welcome to join me."

* * *

It took what seemed like an eternity to wake up the next morning. Arthur realized there was added body weight sprawled on top of him, and he had to fight to push a muscled arm off of his chest. The sun poured in onto the crinkled bedsheets as he sat upright, letting the covers pool down at his waist. He rubbed his eyes with the palm of his hand, using his other hand to support him as he looked around his room. The boxes still clustered, only a few were knocked over or pushed out of the way from last night. He finally looked over to Francis, who was passed out in his bed. The little smile he'd had for just a moment was gone. Even if for a second, Arthur had convinced himself there was a  _different_ blue eyed beauty in his bed. Clothes were thrown all over the room, and hilariously, the Frenchie had a sock that was somehow sticking to his cheek. Arthur tried not to snicker too loudly as he peeled it off of his face and dropped it onto the floor. His eyes ran over the man, taking a moment to absorb the sight. Francis had his own unique beauty to him, with his long, blond locks spread out on the pillows beneath his head and the light dusting of hair on his chest.

But Francis wasn't attractive like Alfred was. Alfred was stunning all the time, from every angle and in every light. No matter what time it was, even if you caught him off guard, he would be undeniably attractive. The Englishman sighed deeply, glancing to the Frenchie's pants. He supposed the man had never gotten the chance to give Alfred his card. He just prayed that the club owner would hand it over sooner rather than later.

After a few minutes of waking himself up by brainstorming everything he had to do that day, Arthur stood from the bed. He shivered as the cold air hit his skin, not to mention the slight ache in his hips. Two Ibuprofen pills and a shower later, the Englishman was dressed only in pajama pants as he made his way into the kitchen. He glanced to the stove, thinking about trying to impress the Frenchman with a freshly cooked breakfast. But after a moments worth of remembering all the kitchen fires he'd caused, he decided against it. Instead he just took out two bowls and filled them with some cereal, pouring milk in and plopping down in the revolving bar seat. He leaned his forearm against the counter, his other hand picking up his spoon. Clearing his throat, Arthur proclaimed rather loudly, "FRANCIS, YAH CEREAL IS GOING TO GET SOGGY. COME DOWN AND GET IT, DOLL."

There was soon a fluid sentence of loud French cursing as a nude Frenchman threw a pillow at Arthur from the top balcony. "DON'T 'OU ENGLISHMEN KNOW NOT TO WAKE A MAN WHEN 'E IS GAINING BEAUTY SLEEP!?" Shouted back a groggy, bed-headed Francis. Arthur just snickered, dodging the pillow and going back to taking large spoonfuls of his cereal.

A few minutes later, a better clothed blue-eyed man walked down the glass stairs, his hair slightly more manicured than before. He still had the annoyed look in his eye as he plopped down in the bar-stool next to Arthur. He began to shovel down the cereal without a word, occasionally muttering little things in French. Arthur, who'd all but forgotten all of his high school French classes, just assumed he was being cursed out. "Alright, alright, point made you bugger. I'm sorry. Oi, while you're running that little club of yours make sure to get my card to Alfred, yes? I need to talk to the lad." Said the Englishman as he shoveled cereal into his mouth, milk dripping out of the corners of his lips as he glanced over to the Frenchman, who snickered.

"Never got any more graceful did 'ou, Arthur?" He muttered, then nodded nonchalantly at the mention of the card. Knowing how evasive and light-footed Alfred was, he knew it'd be one hassle to get the man the Englishman's card. Especially after Alfred had been so hell-bent on getting far away from the artist.

"Whatever you say, doll." Arthur settled down in his seat once he finished, looking around the overly-spaced apartment that he was more than blessed to be in. Everything seemed so superficial, like he'd wake up and be back in the crowded little apartment in England. But no, when his eyes fluttered back open after a moment he was staring at an overly gorgeous Frenchman, who he should of been wanting to fuck again. But all he could think about was a pair of lighter blue eyes and a baby-innocent smile. Sighing frustratedly, he hopped off the stool and almost stomped up the steps, wishing to god he'd feel any twinge of desire for Francis. Who wouldn't? A tall, gorgeous, well built and wealthy foreigner with an accent that could melt iron? And although he was a flirt, he was loyal. So why in the world was Arthur's mind set on the stripper he'd ran into last night for the first time in  _six_ years? "I'm going to go get ready. Be out of here in ten, I've got bloody work to do today."

* * *

Two weeks later and Arthur Kirkland had settled into a groove of the sweet American-styled life. He'd wake up, kick out whatever man was in his bed, go grab a hot tea from the overly-priced bakery across the street, then open his art gallery. On a good day he'd sell a painting or two, keep in mind each was priced the same amount as a months rent for a fairly nice apartment. Arthur still expected for his money to be pulled out from under his feet at any moment, for him to return to poverty and selling his art for the amount of a cheeseburger. But no. People now looked at him like he was worth a million bucks, which technically he was. People didn't call him by harsh names, rather it was 'sir' and 'Mr. Kirkland'. For the first time in his life he was being respected. The only thing in the world that seemed to be missing was the little piece in his mind that made him stay awake at night dreaming about someone else. The little part that made him  _really_ excited to get up just to see someones face. Why should that matter? He asked himself that daily. People would kill for his lifestyle, yet he found himself at the same club night after night in hopes of seeing the blue-eyed beauty.

Arthur tossed and tumbled in the sheets that wrapped around his body in the dead of the night, the digital clock to his right reading somewhere around two in the morning. His chest rose and fell slowly, the sheets rustling every so often as he flipped over. If there was one thing that was draining, it was having to keep a smile on all day for the people that walked in just to spare glances to his art; and usually make a crude remark about the fact they all resembled something, or someone. Generally, those people were horny teenagers pointing and saying, "Wow, that looks like a dick." Then again, what didn't to always-horny miniature assholes? Plus, it wasn't helping he hadn't had time to bring a man home with him. Arthur always slept better with a well-muscled arm thrown over his chest.

The doorbell rang. Arthur had never wanted to punch someone more in the past few years. Who had the nerve to ring his doorbell at two in the goddamn morning on a Wednesday night? And it was  _raining_ outside for Christ's sake! The Englishman ignored it bluntly, waking up just enough to shout out a few profanities in hopes whoever it was would leave. But the ringing happened once more, then twice, then it was like a panicked alarm clock. And hitting snooze wasn't an option. Cursing under his breath, Arthur rolled out of bed in oversized sweat pants and slowly swayed down the hall and the several flights of stairs. It took a long while until he was finally wandering to the door that connecting the back room to the back alley door that was behind the art gallery. It was the actual exit and entrance to his house, but he tended to avoid it considering it was the kind of place he was likely to get shanked in. "Coming, coming, I'm fucking coming!" The Englishman pronounced angrily as the buzzing continued, then came to an abrupt halt.

The door was yanked open by Arthur, who ignored the fact he most likely dislocated his shoulder as he pried open the heavy piece of resistant wood. "Bloody 'ell, don't you know what fucking time it is?!" He shouted before his eyes even had time to focus on who was outside. Rubbing the crap out of the corners of his bright emerald hues, the Englishman's jaw dropped. Standing at his door was the very man he'd been trying to get a hold of, the person he'd dreamed of.

Alfred F. Jones looked more freaked at the response he'd gotten than Arthur did for getting woken up. His eyes were wide, clothes soaked down to the bone. He held a soggy and limp business card in his hand, one Arthur quickly realized as his own. "Francis gave me your card. I uh, just, don't know… Needed to talk with you." Alfred, as if to show he was telling the truth, held out the limp card in his hand, the ink of Arthur's address smeared and almost illegible. "I knocked on like, five other apartment doors before I finally realized that was a '3' and not an '8'…" He mumbled, obviously very tired.

Arthur suddenly realized that it was as cold outside as his ninth grade English teachers heart, and he stepped aside, his hand raising up to point into the dark hall of his home. "In, now. C'mon, it's bloody freezing out there." The artist demanded, not earning a single peep of rebellion as Alfred hastily sped past him, shaking off the water that dripped from his skin-tight shirt. He didn't seem to even bother with getting his leather pants to dry. "You've been working?" Arthur quirked up an eyebrow. He'd gone to that damn club every night for the past two weeks, and none of those nights had he ever caught even a glance of Alfred. The American seemed to squirm uncomfortably a bit at the question, frowning and throwing a glare to the floor.

"I, erm, transferred to a different place. Better pay, nicer customers..."

"And no me?" Arthur wished he wasn't slightly offended by the fact Alfred had changed jobs  _just_ to escape him. Or at least, that was his assumption.

The Englishman received no answer, he didn't bother to demand for one as he closed the door and slowly headed up the stairs back to his place, expecting the American to follow. "Any reason you needed to talk to me at such an ungodly hour?" At this point, Arthur was upstairs and entering his kitchen, flipping on the occasional light so Alfred wouldn't stumble in unknown territory. The glass wall that overlooked the city already lit up the main room enough. Light poured in from sky scrapers and other apartment lights. Sometimes Arthur got a kick out of just watching the shadows of people in their quaint little homes. Once more, the taller seemed to hesitate just a bit on what he was saying. "Spit it out, lad, I'm going back to sleep in five minutes."

"My landlord, like, was a complete, like, piece of shit and he, like…"

"You say 'like' more than I remember,"

"Shut it, Brit." Alfred sounded exasperated beyond relief as he wrung out his shirt and let the water drip from his knuckles into the sink. "He somehow stole my credit card number and took off with all my cash… Which would include rent, and I'm completely broke, and, like, I just don't-"

"I'm your idea of a hotel? A 'stay as long as you'd like, no charge' hotel? You  _do_ realize that not only we haven't seen each other in six years, but when I meet up with you again, you take off like an utter child. A  _child,_ Alfred." Arthur hissed, grabbing the rag that hung over the oven handle, tossing it the other mans way. Alfred let the light piece of cloth hit him, not as much as flinching.

"I don't have anywhere else to go! And I'm sorry, Arthur, really. I have my reasons for leaving. I'm asking for some help here. We're best friends." Alfred said, pronouncing his last words as if he was trying to establish a point. Arthur rolled his eyes and went into the pantry, pulling out cookable things for the other. Although exasperated, he was not cold hearted. Pushing any man or woman out onto the streets when it was raining at two in the morning wasn't acceptable.

"We  _were_  best friends. And, reasons?"

"They're  _my_ reasons. Not something you get to hear." Alfred flinched at the others words, watching Arthur with a tentative stare, deciding on what the other was doing before making the 'wise' decision to hop up on the counter, wrapping his arms around himself in an attempt for heat.

"Oi? Well, you're in  _my_  house, so I suggest your reasons quickly become public knowledge or it will remain  _my_ house." Arthur sat down the ramen package he had in his hand threateningly, shooting a glare that suggested what his next move would be. The American's brows furrowed together and he looked to the floor, obviously not pleased.

"You're just as much of an ass as ya were six years ago," pointed out Alfred, his finger poking in the general direction of the shorter man. "I told you when ya left all that time ago that the next time you'd see me, my face would be in magazines. And that was a lie, you had to see me sulking below rock bottom at that club!"

Arthur wordlessly began to work on food, not to mention turning on the kettle for tea. Even in America, he'd refused to drink the vile thing they threatened to call drinkable; coffee. His bare feet echoed on the plain white tiles of the floor as he did so, shoulder bones lightly poking from a well sculpted back as he reached up to grab a pot. "You were concerned about imagery? After I've seen you completely drunk and rambling like an idiot." Arthur stated more than asked. He'd lowered his eyes to the flames that licked up from the burner, not allowing himself to spare a single glance. He wanted to be pissed off, but if anything he was relieved that Alfred would even think of coming to him in a time of need. Then again, the blue-eyed beauty had probably tried every other home in the state first.

"You of all people should know about wanting to uphold an image, dude. Remember the fact you never told anyone anything in high school? Even me, and we  _were_ best friends then." Alfred replied, suddenly behind Arthur and not on the counter. The Englishman spared a glance over his shoulder, finally turning to face the other. In the time they'd been apart, Alfred really had grown. Besides the broadened shoulders and added height, his jaw had acquired more structure, his cheekbones slightly more elevated and sharp. He looked older. More like an adult and not the kid who'd gotten drunk and blabbered about how great big boobs were every Friday night.

"Those are two completely unfair comparisons." Arthur pointed out, quirking up a thick eyebrow as he crossed his arms over his chest stubbornly. Alfred didn't bother to oppose. Completely sopping wet and half frozen to death, he kept the glare that he was receiving without his eyes wavering even a bit. The timer beeped for the ramen, yet Arthur and Alfred continued their little eye-battling feud, until the artist finally cracked a hint of a smile.

"I missed you, Alfie."

"Missed ya too, Artie."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: I've got literally no excuse for leaving without saying the entire summer. I'm a literal piece of shit who's name on here is Mrs. Procrastination and goddamn do I live up to that name. I'm sorry for such a late update, and I'm sorry if it's shitty. I do have a plan for this in the end, but for some reason my hands just won't type it up the way I'd like. I tried to add the big plan in this chapter, but it didn't flow right at all so I'm trying to translate it into the next chapter. Sorry everybody!
> 
> If you ever want to complain to me to get my shit done, my tumblr is its-a-freakin-metaphor. You're more than welcome to send messages and tell me to get my ass in gear and get going. Sometimes it helps.
> 
> As always, I love you all and I love your comments. It'd be great to get any kind of feedback, I'm here only to make you happy, and improve my own skill!


	9. Hurt Ego's and Memories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur and Alfred settle into their lives of living together, although when one tries to help the other, things get complicated and shit goes down. Some cute making out in this \\(^_^)/ Enjoy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for sticking around with this story for so long. I'm so sorry for being a procrastinating piece of shit, but here's the next chapter. I hope you all enjoy, and comment if you like it, didn't like it, have suggestions or critiques, etc! I love you all for reading so far!

**Chapter 9**

**Hurt Ego's and Memories**

Alfred had almost forgotten how good it felt to get drunk with Arthur next to his side. With other people, it was alright. The whole 'getting drunk' process was the same as always. The alcohol would make his head swim in a pool of nice smelling coffee, and he'd get _really_ fucking horny. But waking up in some strangers bed was different. Waking up completely alone was even worse. Whenever he and Arthur had gotten wasted off their asses in high school, the Brit would always be sleeping on the futon in the corner of the American's room. And now it felt like everything had snapped back into place. Maybe it was true that Alfred had to go dance in front of ungrateful, shallow people almost every night, and of course all Arthur ever blabbered on about was his artwork. But like it used to be, they'd down a few and then sit on the couch. The stripper would poke and prod at the Englishman's sides and make stupid gay jokes, Arthur would groan "You homosexuaaaaaallllll" in response. And when the American came to the next morning, Arthur was already back with muffins from a nearby bakery, and he'd already have taken a shower. Which meant, he'd smell like that gay-ass (yet pleasant) peppermint shampoo he used.

The first week of Alfred living there had been slightly awkward. Neither of them seemed to know what 'temporarily staying' meant, so the American was completely prepared to get his shit and get out the second Arthur said so. He would of been out by then, had the bank not said they "didn't justify dirtily earned money", which Alfred wasn't even sure was legal to say. So he earned it with the six pack and hips - that made it no less real! Arthur, when he'd heard what they'd said, had completely gone off the hook and swore to get back all the money lost. However, neither of them seemed very eager to do that; seeing as it would mean Alfred would have no excuses for crashing on the white-leather couch.

By the time Alfred woke up early(ish) Friday morning, there was a pepperminty-Arthur Kirkland humming to himself as he set out breakfast on the bar, wearing slim-fitting jeans and a white t-shirt. Alfred, no matter how many times he saw him, would never find it weird that Arthur wasn't black-clad and covered in piercings. "Morning." He grumbled as he sat upright, glancing around in amazement. The artist had to be some kind of fucking fairy, to be able to clean up so much damn beer so quickly. He groaned and ground his palm into his temple, cursing out God for hangovers having to "be a thing." He glanced to his left, seeing Arthur had left out water and Ibuprofen, as always.

"Afternoon." Arthur responded, smiling faintly as he jogged up the glass spiral staircase to his room, coming back a moment later with his wallet and phone in hand.

"Afternoon? It's like… Nine in the morning."

" 'It's like… 1 o'clock in the afternoon.' " Arthur replied, mimicking the drowsy, oh-so American accent. He bit down into the scone he'd gotten, holding it between his lips as he walked over and grabbed a jacket, sliding it onto his shoulders and doing up the mid few buttons. He turned around to glance to the American, raising up an eyebrow that had never gotten thinner since the day Alfred had known him. The American teasingly tossed a pillow the others way as he began to move around to the kitchen, devouring the given food.

"Screw yah'," Alfred remarked lazily at the mocking, mouth full of food.

"You tried to last night." Arthur mocked back, knowing that _any_ mention of how 'falsely-homo' Alfred talked when drunk, got him pissy. (And yes, 'falsely-homo' was how the American had described being drunk made him.)

"Go screw YOURSELF." Alfred corrected loudly as Arthur walked out the door, shooting a glare until the other was gone. Then he smiled and huffed lightly, blowing the longer locks of blonde hair from his eyes. He took a seat on the spinning bar stool, glancing around the apartment. He had to wonder how long it would be until he would no longer be allowed to stay here like it was his own home. Had someone else tried to stay at his own home for too long, Alfred knew his hospitality would be short and stretched.

An hour later and Alfred was headed down to the gallery, better clothed and drugged-up to try to help with the headache. He had on his bombers jacket - something Arthur had insisted he wear whenever he planned on going to 'work'. For someone who didn't seem to mind having Alfred live with him and complain all about rude customers; Arthur really seemed to dislike the idea of his customers seeing someone dressed in leather jeans walking through his store.

"You going out?" Inquired the artist as he gently persuaded an older couple towards his black and white paintings.

Alfred could swear he felt an overlaying tone of 'I'd wish you not' in Arthur's tone, which he promptly ignored. "Yeah.. I'll be back later." Quickly crossing the expansive, stainless-white floor, Alfred was out the door within seconds. He didn't like the fact Arthur would glare holes into his back as he left. His job was his job, it wasn't something he got to quit the second he found his friend, even if that would have been more convenient. Arthur's eyes followed the man's back until he was far off down the road, finally returning to his customers with a lighthearted sigh and a frown.

* * *

Maybe it was Alfred's ego, which kept him floating hundreds of feet above everyone else, that prevented him from asking for help from his British friend. Surely it wouldn't have been that hard to show just a little bit of humanity towards the other. But no, he still thought of Arthur as the black-clad, bloody-lipped, bruised-ribbed teenage boy. The badass one, but the one whose mental state was not to be trifled with. And the idea of asking help from him wasn't an appealing one. So he worked his ass off for the rest of the day. Instead of returning to the sanctuary of Arthur's apartment, he worked until opening, and much beyond then. Alfred half expected to see Arthur wading in the thumping crowd halfway through the night, demanding he return home. But he was giving lap dances and 'private calls' until three in the morning. As he headed back that night, for the first time in a while, the American was excited to be heading back to something he would have liked to call a home.

Up the flights of stairs he'd crawled, black bags forming beneath his eyes quicker than the stars as they dominated the sky. By the time he was making it into the living room, he had been practically asleep whilst standing up. He'd fallen down onto the slick leather, not moving after he'd managed to throw an arm beneath his head to act as a pillow…

The next morning, and Alfred was being woken up to a shadow standing over him. It was no surprise to see Arthur, dark blue jeans and a plain white t, perched on the arm of the couch. There was the moment of immediate shock where their eyes met and the Englishman realized he'd been caught staring, before he played it off and grew a smile like a weed on his lips. "Morning. Ya slept in again, lad. C'mon, get up, lunch time." The painter was gone before Alfred could make some half-assed joke about the fact he'd likely been sitting there for a few minutes. Managing to crawl into the sitting position himself, the stripper half-assedly tossed a pillow in the general direction of the disappearing Englishman. He had to search around for his glasses, which had become lost in the crevices of the couch throughout the night.

No more than ten minutes later and a bathed Alfred F. Jones made his way down the winding glass staircase and into the kitchen. His fingers delicately traced over the expensive countertop he'd never been able to ignore, before his eyes made their way over to Arthur, who had hastily hung up his cell phone and pocketed it before Alfred had a chance to make out any of the voices. Alfred shook it off. "Breakfast for lunch?" He inquired. Arthur, who appeared to be startled by the sudden appearance of the man, whipped around. If he hadn't been good at cooking in the first place, the eggs being fried (burnt to a crisp) were completely black and curling in at the edges. Alfred resisted the urge to plug his nose.

"Thought you should at least pretend to be eating breakfast at the right time," the artist turned off the stove, leaving the burnt remains of eggs to sizzle away. Alfred honestly found it amazing the man had never gotten the fire department to come out.

"Yeah, yeah… Well, I have to head out to work soon, so…" The American noticed the slightest tense of the artist's shoulders, "I'll be back late again. There's no need to keep cooking for me, Art, I know you have a store to run."

"No problem, no problem, I don't open until one on Saturday's anyway…" Arthur seemed to be slightly off in his thoughts, Alfred paid no mind to it.

Ten minutes later of Alfred skillfully placing a napkin in his lap and funneling pieces of egg down into it later, he was carefully discarding of the burnt egg to the bottom of the trash can where the other would hopefully never find it. He bid the Englishman farewell, feeling overly guilty for the fact he found his eyes combing up and down over the man before he headed out the door. Arthur was a good-looking man. He'd bulked up, filled out his clothing more compared to in high school, where he'd been dauntingly skinny. He looked so much more full of life, and happiness in general. The American kept the pleasant thoughts in mind as he walked out of the storefront and down the street. His eyes traced over all of the buildings surrounding, towering dozens of stories above him. New York was not a city to be trifled with when it came to its buildings' heights.

Alfred knew something was wrong the second he stepped foot into the back of the club, where he actually practiced on yoga mats meant for falling on, and he got half a dozen odd glances his way. Raising an eyebrow as he slid off his bombers jacket and dropped it to the floor, Alfred headed over to Francis. He tapped the man's shoulder, trying to ignore the odd feeling of eyes peering into his back. The Frenchman turned around with a hint of surprise, long blond locks flying around in disarray. To the American's surprise, the man juxtapose to him looked equally surprised to see him. "Alfred! Bonjour, mon ami. I am glad to see you, but I must ask what you're doing here…?"

The dancer looked less than pleased at the Frenchman's inquiring. "Well, generally when you work somewhere, you are expected to show up. I know I'm not _that_ reliable when it comes to showing up to rehearsal, but jeez. You guys are ridiculous."

The air thickened and soured as the seconds of silence ticked on. Alfred found himself loosing confidence, shoulders slacking and raising defensively simultaneously. He crossed his arms over his chest. Francis quirked up an eyebrow, biting down on his perfect lower lips. It made Alfred just a _little_ angry to know those lips been places on Arthur's body that _he_ hadn't been. "Did 'e…? Er, go consult Arthur on it, mon ami. I was under the impression you'd quit. 'E said 'e would talk to you about it…?" Nobody wanted to see Alfred pissed off. He was 240 pounds of muscle. And Francis didn't seem any more inclined to pick the strings of the others emotions, especially when it came to the mention of his job. He knew the dancer had never been particularly pleased with the fact he was in the line of work he was in. But he couldn't imagine being kicked out was any better.

Alfred's lips were spread, then pressed together into a thin line a moment later. He leaned down and grabbed his jacket, swinging it over his shoulder and holding onto it with one hand. He straightened up, huffing irritably. "So… I'll go talk to Arthur then." He was out of the well-lit studio before anyone else had the chance to keep their eyes prying on him. He hurried down the streets, and back to the back of the art gallery. He was sure he was pissed, because other than the fact his face was hot and his knuckles clenched, an older couple who was in the store took a single glance at him and hurried out the front door. Arthur, who was standing near the back, tapping away at his calculator, looked up at Alfred. One of the things that probably pissed the American off the most was the fact the Englishman held no surprise in the deep emerald pools that were his eyes, but exasperation. The little shit was _annoyed_ to have to deal with him!

"You're scaring away the customers, Alfred."

"I don't give a _shit_ , Arthur! Not a single _shit!_ Why did I show up to my job and it wasn't there for me?!" The American demanded, voice dropping low in fury as he slammed his fist down on the white marble of the counter near the back.

The Englishman cleared his throat, sighing and running a hand through his soft blond hair. Alfred hated both himself, and the painter, for the fact the man looked so goddamn attractive even when his own head was filled with such vehement thoughts. "If you'd calm down for a bloody minute… I had a proposal for you. You could earn twice the amount of money by working _here_ , in my gallery with me. No late nights, no gross sexual pigs. Had you given me the time of day this morning to explain I would have told you." Alfred seemed no less calm.

"So you took it upon _yourself_ to get rid of _my job_ for me? What if I don't want to fucking work here, what if I don't want your damned pity?!"

"It's not pity, Jones. I've needed someone here for a while-"

"Screw this! That was my _job_ , my _life_ , actually. You don't get to make my decisions like you're my mom! What if I enjoyed working there?" Alfred, red in the face and humiliated, leaned into the counter and closer to the other, practically overfilling with rage. He'd done so little good in his life. Spent almost all four years of high school beating the shit out of someone because he was insecure, tried to make something of himself, and ended up in a strip club doing _anything_ to pay rent. And now Arthur was here, trying to take away what little he had left to his name, what little dignity he'd stored away in a box.

" _You,_ the 'no-homo' Jones, enjoyed men grabbing your arse every half hour? You enjoyed being some fuckboy for half the men and women of this city? And while we're on the topic, how _would_ your mother feel about your job? Because I remember a lady who would certainly smack you upside the head if she saw you doing this. If she saw you throwing away an opportunity like _this_ job because you're so blinded by your ego that you can't accept a little help. It is _your_ life, and you'll run it straight into the ground if you keep working there. I'm offering you a _good thing._ "

The tension hung around them, threatening to snap at any moment. Alfred had slammed both of his hands down onto the counter, calloused fingers sprawled widely over the slick countertop. Arthur had hardly moved from his standing position, granted having taken a step back to avoid being in spitting range of the American. Their eyes were dangerously locked, although one of them knew they were right, and the other knew they were wrong. The man with bright blue eyes and a once child-like smile slowly removed his hands and took a step back, exhaling and letting his shoulders gain slack. "You know what? Screw it, I don't need your help."

And then the blue-eyed man was taking long strides until he flung himself out of the front door, and stomped down the street.

* * *

Feelings were dumb. Arthur remembered that dawning on him one night six years ago. He'd been really hurt then, it'd been a few nights after Alfred had helped him from the closet in his house. Feelings were dumb. They were like unavoidable sticky notes that someone had taped to his eyelids, so any time he dared blink he was reminded of them. But what feeling was the worst? Not the agonizing, crushing sensation of being let down, not depression, or hated. But love. It was like flowers were growing in his lungs. And by god, they were too beautiful to cut, but they made it hard to breathe.

Maybe that was why Alfred had ran out, and maybe that was why Arthur watched the back of that damned leather jacket that had somehow managed to remain glued to the American without protesting. Because the flowers were trying to climb up his throat and he couldn't manage to speak. He also didn't speak when he got a call from Francis later. He listened to a very agitated Frenchman go on about how they'd already hired another dancer, about how _he_ was at fault for Alfred now being jobless and in New York city. But because of the damned flowers, he just listened.

If there was one thing he hadn't been expecting, it was the sound of his door being opened around two in the morning. There was a brief moment of panic that struck him in the chest as his eyes blinked open and consciousness struck him, before he remembered he'd given his key copies out to a few people. Francis seemed like the most likely option at the moment. Booty calls from that man were not uncommon. Slowly clambering out of bed and crossing his spacious room, Arthur grabbed his shirt and threw it on, flicking every set of lights on he could as he wandered down the hall and to the glass staircase. He looked down over the living area, more than a little surprised to see not Francis, but Alfred. A less egotistical Alfred, and that much was obvious. For the man was on the couch again, facing the ceiling and grinding the palms of his hands into his eyes, muttering about the room spinning. Even from up there, Arthur inhaled the scent of alcohol.

"You scared the living shit out of me." The Englishman muttered as he slowly made his way down the steps. It'd been one of the first few things the flowers in his throat had let him say that day. Maybe it was because those flowers bowed down to the reason they were there.

"Srryyyy… Srry… I'm soooo drunk." Alfred blabbered immediately, his finger stretching into the air as if trying to point, although it swirled around before falling back down onto his chest. The Englishman made his way over to the couch, taking a seat near the other man's head. There was a moment of silence, the green-eyed man simply quirked an eyebrow up as he stared down to the younger man. Alfred, who wasn't looking as good as he could have, was the first to speak. "… I had no where else to go." The single sentence was filled with such a sadness, Arthur couldn't help but to sigh, slowly slipping his arms beneath the mans armpits, helping him into a sitting position.

"C'mon, you get to sleep in the bed tonight." The painter muttered sympathetically, trying to get the man up. But Alfred just switched from his back, to pressing his face into the crook of the other mans neck, swaying as he did so. As much fun as their drunken little moments were, when one of them was sober it became immediately awkward. Because if Arthur ever let anything happen, once Al was sober again, he'd be furious. As an important side note that people often forgot, being too drunk to stand up did _not_ equal consent to do anything. Rather, it meant that person shouldn't be doing anything. Arthur knew he wasn't a prime example of following that, he'd gotten wasted then fucked more times than he could remember. But it was a general rule of his to help anyone home from bars that couldn't stand upright instead of trying to take advantage of their lack of judgement.

They both sat in that position for a moment, the American's forehead burned hot as it pressed into the cool flesh of Arthur's neck. Occasionally, the Englishman felt his lips move against his neck, as if he was debating on saying something. After a while they'd both settled into a comfortable position, their arms draped over one another in the darkness of the room. The moon poured in from the floor-to-cieling window, illuminating their silhouettes on the couch. Arthur was half asleep for the longest time, until he felt a sudden shift. Alfred had thought it was a _fantastic_ idea to pull the older man onto his lap. Instinctively, Arthur straddled the dancer, looking down at the man for an explanation. And for once, Alfred had one.

"I doooon't suppose you remember this… You were, like, suuuper drunk. As drunk as me now…" Alfred's hands were sliding down Arthur's thighs, then up again, closer to an area they both should have been avoiding. "We were at that party… We were in this biiiig fuckin' beanbag… And you got in my lap, it was a.. a darrreee." All of the American's prolonged words were spent being whispered into the ear of the man on top of him. Despite his best attempts, the flowers in Arthur's lungs were making it impossible to do anything other than sit there and pay attention to the hands on his body. By no means were they unwelcome. "I was sooo against it because, like, no homooo? But you were sooo fuckin' hot. It felt fuckin' great. Your tongue was in my mouth and.. and… Your hips were so, like… Mh…" The drunken man seemed to give up on trying to explain the feeling, instead letting his hands wander up to Arthur's ass, grabbing on and pulling their bodies closer together. The painter gasped quietly, out of surprise more than anything else. All of this information was completely new, he hadn't remembered any of it. But it seemed to fit in. The way Alfred had acted that next day…

There wasn't too much time to dwell on what to do, because the American's lips were on his neck, moving in ways that made Arthur's toes curl and his hips move. You know in which way. Then there was the short period of erotic silence, of mumbling and groaning and hands sliding up and down thighs and almost venturing to their shirts. Alfred's hands were placed on the Englishman's waist, pressing up into him with his hips, making his problem obvious.

Alfred stopped abruptly, enough so to where Arthur felt cold wind hitting the wet spots on his neck. He looked down, curious. The man's eyes were wide, head whipping back and forth. It took hardly half a second before the Englishman realized what was happening, and he was hastily getting off the others lap just in time for the man to madly stumble to the sink, head ducking down as he threw up. Arthur remembered his mouth tasting like puke that next morning after the party. What irony. Laying down on the couch and slowly running his hands through his hair, he rubbed his cheeks until he could convince himself that the heat there was because of the heat in the room. When Alfred finally returned with a disgusted look on his face, smelling his own breath, Arthur figured it wouldn't be a great time to resume anything. Slowly rising up to his feet, he caught the stumbling mans' arm. "Let's take you upstairs…"

"Just bed?" Alfred inquired, sounding like he'd been hit by a train.

"Just bed… You've had too much to drink." The Englishman remarked, sighing.

Helping the drunken man up a flight of winding glass steps proved harder to be than it sounded. It took a good five minutes of struggling and cursing, then another five of non-sensually trying to help the man out of his leather jeans and into pajama pants, before settling him down beneath the large covers. And Alfred was out like a light, unconscious the second his head hit the pillow. Arthur stood over him for a moment, rubbing at his marked-up neck with bright cheeks and a slight issue down south. He wondered if it had been Alfred who'd helped him to a bed six years ago, Alfred who'd helped him out of his uncomfortable clothing, Alfred who'd stood over his bed and wondered what in the world was happening to his sanity.

Slowly, he headed out of the room and down to the couch, grabbing blankets scattered on the ground as he did so. He lay back, looking to the ceiling and letting the moon pour in the room. He wished he could say something, some kind of goodnight to the man. But feelings were dumb, and the flowers in his lungs wouldn't let him breathe.


	10. A New Job and an Undeniably Beautiful Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfred finally begins to settle into the 'American dream' style life, only to get bored of it mere weeks in. What will he do to quell his boredom? And at what cost?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A wild writer has appeared! Wild Writer used: I'm So Sorry for Not Updating for like Eight Months I Know I'm a Piece of Shit. Please Love Me Anyways.

**Chapter 10**

**A New Job and an Undeniably Beautiful Man**

"How may I help you guys?" Alfred held open the door to the large art gallery, grinning ear to ear as an older couple walked in. Two weeks into working for Arthur and he was finally getting the gist of how to butter up people and coax them to buy something; other than his body. Which was  _weird_ , by the way, not having to flex his muscles and walk around shirtless all the time. Not necessarily bad, but weird. Even back in high school, most of his appeal towards his peers was based purely off the fact he was a god; in sports and otherwise. But in the adult world, he was another twenty-three year old with a pretty face that had to find a job, just like all the other boring adults.

The drunken making out had yet to be mentioned. The American was fairly sure Arthur thought Alfred hadn't remembered it at all, and he half wished he hadn't. Only because whenever he jacked off in the shower, all he could reenact in his head was that one minute. Out of all the sexual fantasies he'd been able to fulfill in his life, that was what got him going. As he walked the couple around the store and regurgitated facts about each painting that Arthur had imprinted in his brain, Alfred's mind began to wander. Was he going to have to do this  _every day_ for the rest of his life? "This was inspired during a pride march in Manchester, England." "This was a charcoal sketch done of the people there." How boring was that!? At least at the strip clubs, weird shit happened  _all_ the time. The night was not complete without someone being stabbed, or Alfred trying some weird drug he'd never heard of. This whole life was so… mundane. It was like living the life he swore himself he'd never succumb to.

The money wasn't bad though, and neither was getting to stay with Arthur. Even after the first weeks pay check would have allowed him to move out, neither seemed too keen on the idea. "Plus," as Arthur had said, "when you stay here, I know you'll never be late to work." Having a steady stream of cash inflow was nice, it gave him more hope than his previous employment had. Back then, whether or not he got to eat depended entirely on how well he could shake his ass. Now, he just had to smile and sell the shit outta Arthur's paintings.

The day dragged on, like every other for the past few weeks had. Alfred greeted dozens of people, and glared the teenagers away every time they came in. God, was  _he_ that annoying?  _"I'm sorry to everyone who knew me back then."_ Alfred thought to himself every time he had to shoo the seventeen year olds out of the gallery. The one perk of working there was seeing Arthur. More specifically, getting to see his face light up every time he received a compliment. He envied the Brit for finding something that he loved to do so much, because all Alfred really enjoyed was drinking and making out with people. Getting to see Arthur's eyes sparkle like two emeralds implanted in his head was priceless.

"Alfred, I've got to go run a few checks by the bank. Can you close for me?" Arthur, wearing a paint-covered t-shirt and washed out skinny jeans, walked up to the American as the day neared to an end. He'd been painting in the slowest part of the day, and it showed. He had specks of red in his bangs, which reminded Alfred shockingly of all the hair dye that used to reside there. He nodded.

"Of course, of course. See you for dinner." The American replied nonchalantly. 'Dinner' was three packets of ramen boiled in an oversized pot, and either Capri Suns or Mountain Dew. Whichever was left over in the pantry. Alfred thought it was funny that even though they were adults, they ate like they did when they were seventeen; broke, hungry, and desperate.

Arthur walked out through the front door, holding it open for a middle aged man as he did so. Alfred was in the back, already tallying up the money in the register. He glanced up as he saw someone else come in, mentally groaning. Didn't people get that 'close at 6:30 on Wednesdays' meant  _get the fuck out_. He'd already been standing up since eight that morning, he was ready to go indulge in beer. "Anything I can help you with, sir?" He questioned, not looking up again from the cash register until he felt the presence of the man standing on the opposite side of the counter. He looked up, and immediately his eyes widened.

"Good to see you again, Mr. Jones." Said the man, giving a somewhat sinister smile. Alfred remembered him from the club, he was one of the regulars. The one that always sat in the corner and looked slightly disgusted when they offered him cheap alcohol. The American stiffened slightly, but smiled. "What a change of careers you've undergone."

"Yeah, it was a big change. Good to see you again as well, sir." Alfred closed the register, walking out from behind the counter. "Is there anything here you're interested in?" He questioned, beginning to walk past the paintings for the billionth time that day.

"You?" The man joked, and laughed. Alfred gave a dry chuckle as well in response. "Excuse me, it's not my place to be lewd outside of those clubs… However, I do know a place hiring, if you're interested. This place," the man motioned around the gallery "doesn't quite seem like your kind of thing…"

"Aw darn, I wish I could. This is actually kinda, you know… A step away from that kind of thing." Alfred replied slowly, biting down on his lower lip. It was hard to turn down. "Those clubs are a little too rowdy for me now."

"Actually, the place I was thinking of is slightly different… It's more of a gathering, for a few friends and I. I keep it running two nights a week, admission costs a pretty penny. You wouldn't be working with low-life scum anymore. Whatever you're making here, I can promise we'd double it." A card was being offered out to Alfred, with nothing more than the name ' _Alexander Callahan'_ and a number on it. "Do give me a call, if you're interested. Hours are negotiable, for a dancer like yourself." Alfred felt eyes rake up his body, tearing off the clothes he was wearing. He took a small step back, but smiled nonetheless.

"Will do. Thanks a ton, sir."

* * *

Alfred took the job. He felt slimy and gross for taking it, but after another week of "hello, how may I help you?" and reciting the history of over one hundred paintings, he almost begged to start working. It was only two nights a week, and a very limited number of hours. Which made it exceedingly easy to lie to Arthur. He told him all sorts of things. "I'm going to meet up with some old friends! The ones you hate." and "I'm going to visit a distant aunt who's in town." He said anything and everything to keep the other at home and oblivious.

Tonight was the fifth time he was working. His 'workplace' was the entire top floor of one of the most magnificent hotels in New York, and it was owned by one of the richest men in America. Apparently, the penthouse was the stomping grounds of rich men and women with too much time on their hands. People came and went, but it was apparent they all had too much money, and too little time to spend it all. When the hand on the clock struck two in the morning, he crawled off the man's lap he was on. "Over so soon?" The foreign-sounding man whined, despite the smile on his lips.

"Afraid so. I'll be here this Friday too, though." Alfred replied kindly, trying to ignore how cold the man's hands had been on his bare flesh. His shirt had been ridden of many hours ago, as had his pants, and for most the night he'd walked around in his boxer briefs. He'd asked his employer if he needed anything else to wear, half expecting some weird playboy costume. But he'd been told the people he served preferred a more 'realistic' dancer. If that meant he didn't have to put on bunny ears, that was  _perfect_ with him.

The people dressed in million dollar suits and dresses made of pure silk began to gather all of their belongings, and the soft jazz music wained to a stop. The atmosphere in the top floor of the hotel differed drastically from clubs. People were sophisticated, the alcohol was expensive, the drugs there were the kind that cost a thousand a gram, and Alfred wasn't ripped off twice a night.

"Good job, Jones." Said a woman named Elise. She passed him as he tugged his black skinny jeans back on, and paused to admire him. Alfred smiled lightly, and nodded. It was hard to accept compliments here, he didn't want to accept the fact that dancing was the one thing he was good at. He  _couldn't_ believe that this was the peak of his life - that would be downright depressing. He had to hope he'd find something he was passionate about. He prayed he would.

The walk home sobered him up almost immediately. The ice in the air sliced through his thin jacket and froze his skin. Alfred wrapped his jacket closer around his body as he shivered, and hurried home. New York was oddly exotic at night. Beautiful wasn't the word; beautiful would indicate there was a gentle, comforting air to the city. The world was exotic, rough on the edges and sharp enough to cut a throat. But stunning. The streets were illuminated with windows, each dimly supported with flickering lamps and lights. He found it amazing that each and every windowsill had a different story lying directly behind it.

Working with rich, stuck-up asses made Alfred realize how attracted he was to Arthur. It was some sort of weird reverse-psychology, some odd push away from some that pulled him even closer to the Brit. He was more excited to get home than usual.

It was no big surprise that the Englishman was awake once he dragged himself up two flights of stairs and threw his shoulder against the begrudging door. Arthur was laying on the white leather couch, with a half-empty bottle of vodka in one hand, and the television remote in the other. His eyes were glazed over as he watched some horror movie that Alfred  _immediately_ turned off. Arthur snapped out of his daze as the other entered, and smiled drunkenly.

"I was gonna wait for you, love…" Arthur said, almost regretfully. He looked down to the vodka, seeming to be surprised it was not all there. "You got home later than I thought you would. How were your friends?" Leave it to Arthur to sound moderately sober, despite the fact he was swaying and nearly falling. Alfred walked over and took a seat on the couch next to him, removing the bottle from the Brit, only to take a large swig of it himself. He made a little face.

"Ugh, assholes, as always."

"Why do you go out with them, then? Stay home with me! I've got good alcohol~" Arthur said in a sing-song voice, leaning against the other and humming silently. The American felt like they continually traded places. One was always drunk, the other trying desperately to get drunk as well so he didn't have to deal with the other. It was  _weird_ to be around someone totally wasted when you were sober.

"Ya know… I gotta get out of the house some time." Alfred took another large gulp of the clear liquid, grimacing. Arthur rested his head on the taller male's shoulder, closing his eyes momentarily.

"I have a question." Arthur declared suddenly, as if he'd planned on saying those four words all night. He struggled to open his eyes, lift his head up, and place his chin on Alfred's shoulder. He looked the American in the eyes. "Are you like… Straight? I don't get how you can…can…" Arthur furrowed his eyebrows, looking away, seeming to forget what words to verbalize next. "work at clubs and, ya know…" He sighed, and Alfred inhaled the vodka soaked into the Englishman's breath.  _"I'm not drunk enough for this,"_ The blue-eyed man thought, taking another swig of the vodka.

"I don't know… I don't like most guys like  _that_."  _'Just you,'_ Alfred added on mentally, moving his arm to wrap it around the Brit's shoulders. Arthur was absolutely too intoxicated to do anything other than slump up against the other, snuggling for warmth. ' _How long are we going to keep getting drunk and forgetting about what was said the next morning…?'_

"Oh…" Arthur nodded, making one attempt to grab the bottle. His arm swung out, and missed by half a foot. After drinking a bit more, Alfred sat the bottle far away from the both of them.

"Alright, Arthur, bedtime." After a while in the stagnant silence, the American rose up to his feet, then leaned back down over the couch. He wrapped an arm underneath Arthur's, helping to hoist the Brit up to his feet; not without complaint.

"I don't wannaaa… I waited all night for you to get back." Arthur whined, allowing himself to be half-lead, half-dragged up the stairs with great cautiousness, and down the hall. The American only nodded, flipping on the bedside lamp after sitting the artist down on the bed. After a moments deliberation, he kicked off his shoes and crawled into the opposite side of the bed. Arthur seemed too intoxicated to notice or care, seeing as he'd immediately curled up in the fetal position underneath the thick duvet. Alfred would later play off his little sleepover as not wanting to spend another night on the back-breaking couch.

"Is it alright if I stay here…?" The American questioned after at least a minute of dead silence. His eyes wandered around the room, which still had boxes in the corners that had yet to be unpacked. Arthur, who had already been dozing off, rolled over to face Alfred.

"Mh hm…" He hummed quietly, throwing an arm over the larger male and immediately closing his eyes again. Alfred took off his glasses and tossed them near the end of the bed, not able to reach a bed stand without moving the (already?) asleep Englishman. He looked down to the Brit's face, studying how peaceful he looked. Arthur had always been stunning, but six years of college, and working as the starving artist had matured him. His cheekbones were more sharp, his face slightly more narrow. He always looked as if he was trying to figure out a complex puzzle in his head. He always looked beautiful.

Alfred sighed quietly, able to smell the alcohol in his own breath. Grimacing slightly, he returned to looking to Arthur. It was hard to do in the day, when the Englishman was moving and alert. It was nice to be able to see him now, see his chest rise and fall slowly, and his eyelashes flutter every minute or so. He looked like a work of art, deserving to be hung in the finest of galleries. Maybe Arthur was a piece down in his art gallery, maybe people viewed him as another eloquent painting. He would fit right in. Alfred wished he didn't think those kinds of things about Arthur, but he couldn't help it. The Englishman was undeniably beautiful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really sorry I left for so long, I've been having some family issues which led me to take a break from pretty much everything. I'm hopefully back now, and I hope you enjoyed this chapter! (PS I am so so so sorry for being gone, I feel really bad about it.)


End file.
